


Love Like Nobody Around You

by roebling



Category: Bandom, Panic At The Disco
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Community: bandomreversebb, F/M, Genderswap, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-07
Updated: 2012-03-07
Packaged: 2017-11-01 14:17:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/357775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roebling/pseuds/roebling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spencer Jane Smith knows she wants out of New Jersey, but there are still months until she’s done with high school. For now, there are still new people for Spencer to meet and new things for her to try, if she can just figure out what she wants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love Like Nobody Around You

**Author's Note:**

> Author notes: If it’s not clear from the above, this is an always-a-girl!Spencer high school AU. Enormous thanks to [monkey_pie](http://http://monkey-pie.livejournal.com/) for creating the incredible mix _Something That You Need_ that inspired this story. Besides including some of my very favorite bands, this mix presented a very compelling narrative that I hope I’ve done justice to. This story also owes a great debt to professional scatterbrain  & estei, who provided reassurance and encouragement; eledhwenlin, who gave me direction; and octette, whose excellent beta resulted in this being at least 100% better than it would have been otherwise. Any remaining errors are my own.
> 
> Additional Warning: This story depicts a consensual relationship between a 23 year old and a 17 year old, wherein the 23 year old is not initially aware of the younger character’s age.

Spencer stares down at the toe of her right boot. It’s scuffed. She doesn’t know how she managed that already -- these boots are almost brand new, a seventeenth birthday gift from her parents. She lets her legs swing; she’s tall, but these bar stools are tall too. They make her feel like a little kid, feet dangling inches above the sticky floor.

"You must be a drummer, right?"

She’s startled out of her contemplation. She looks up. A tall guy with a shock of dark hair -- the guy who just left the stage, she realizes -- is standing next to her at the bar.

"Huh?"

"You drum, right?" he says again, louder. The volume of the crowd has picked up, and they're piping in an old Pulp track on top of the noise. "I saw you air drumming along."

He mimes a quick roll, hands loose and position correct.

He must drum too.

"I've been playing since I was in middle school," she says. "I'm in a band with some friends of mine, but we mostly just mess around in my garage."

"Oh yeah?" he says. "You looked pretty into it."

Spencer frowns. It’s weird that he even noticed her. He was rocking out pretty hard up there on stage for one guy with an acoustic guitar. There's sweat on his brow and his upper lip. It's a warm September night in New Jersey, and the club’s packed. She's wearing a sweater, but she wishes she weren't.

"You were really good," she says. She's not flattering him or anything. She did think he was good. "Brobeck ... is that your name?"

He laughs like he's hugely amused. "I get that all the time," he says. "The name's Dallon. Dallon Weekes, but I'm thinking of having it legally changed."

He holds out his hand for her to shake. His palm is a little damp.

Spencer can't remember the last time she shook someone's hand. It's a weird thing to do, outside of meeting the president or some old relative or something.

"I'm Spencer," she says. Preemptively, she adds, "It's a family name. Spencer Jane."

"It's nice to meet you, Spencer Jane," Dallon says.

The barkeeper hands him a tall glass filled with ice. He takes a sip, head tipped back. His neck is really long. She watches the way his Adam's apple bobs when he swallows. He catches her staring. She looks away, embarrassed at having been caught.

"So did you come to see these guys?" Dallon asks, gesturing loosely towards the stage, where the headliners are setting up.

She shakes her head. "Nah," she says. "I'm here with my friend Ryan. He's ..." She doesn't know where Ryan's disappeared to, actually, but she'd bet money that Mikey and Frank aren't far off. Since he met them at a gig last spring Ryan’s been following them around like a little lost duckling. It’s their friend Gabe that actually owns the bar. "Well, he's somewhere. A friend of his owns this place, so we come pretty often."

She doesn't mention that Ryan's friends are the only reason she can get into this bar -- she doesn’t have a fake ID.

Dallon nods. "Cool," he says. "I'm new to the area and I heard this was a pretty good place to play. Seems like most of the crowd aren’t here for the music, though."

Spencer snorts. "Not for them," she says, nodding at the stage.

"Not a fan, huh?" Dallon asks. He's leaning back against the bar now, one elbow bent. He's shifted to stand a little closer to her ... maybe just a little bit closer. Maybe it’s her imagination.

"They're kind of like Coldplay meets Bon Iver," she says. "But with less talent. I'm surprised they haven't started serving coffee on nights they play to keep the audience awake."

"Oh, burn, " Dallon says. “But, hey, I like Coldplay!”

It's a totally dorky thing to say. Spencer likes that. A lot of the guys in bands she knows -- well, a lot of the guys in bands she knows could care less what she thinks about music, but most of them are too concerned with seeming like they're the coolest kids in the entire state to dare say anything that's not Hipster Runoff approved.

"They're not terrible," she says. "Just not my thing, exactly."

"What is your thing?" he asks, and this time it's not her imagination. He has moved just a little bit closer.

"Sonic Youth. Yo La Tengo. Georgia Hubley's my hero," she admits.

It's a rehearsed line. Maybe she, too, is just a little too concerned with seeming cool.

"Hmm," Dallon says. "So you've got a thing for husband/wife alt rock from the nineties. Interesting."

"I've got a thing for good music," she says. The words sound daring as soon as they're out of her mouth.

Dallon smiles, wide. "Me too," he says. "Awesome."

He drains his drink in one go. "Gotta go load up my stuff, I guess. It'll probably take me an hour to get my car started."

“Do you need some help?” she asks.

He looks her up and down, slowly. The way he looks at her -- she can feel the weight of his gaze on the length of her legs, the curve of her breasts under her cardigan, the line of her jaw -- makes her feel more aware of her body than she’s ever felt before.

“I could always use an extra hand,” he says.

She follows him backstage through a warren of cinder block-walled rooms with shitty carpets and beer bottles everywhere. He’s only got an amp and his guitar.

He grabs the amp and she takes the guitar. It’s cool he lets her carry it out. Ryan’s weird about his guitars -- he’s barely willing to let Brendon play them in rehearsal. There’s a few band lackeys hanging around on the filthy couches, but they don’t pay the pair of them any attention. Spencer holds the rusty service door open.

Outside, it’s raining. The parking lot is empty. Mist garlands the streetlights. Dallon’s car is a beater, big spots of rust mottling faded paint. He sets the amp down in the capacious back seat. She hands him the guitar.

He takes a scrap of paper from his pocket, scribbles something on it, and hands it to her.

She looks down. It’s his number.

“I’m looking for a drummer,” he says. “You should call me if you want to jam, Spencer Jane.”

“Okay,” she says. “Maybe.”

*****

The library was more fun last year, Spencer decides. She is sitting cross-legged with a book cradled in her lap at the end of the Poetry and Creative Nonfiction row – _The Crucible_ , which she is supposed to be reading for English. Last year, Ryan would have been here too, taking books off the shelves and opening them to any page at random. He’d read off a few lines or sometimes an entire paragraph, digest whatever tidbit of knowledge there was to digest, and re-shelve the book in the wrong place. The librarians were always exasperated, but Spencer thinks secretly they miss him. They never ask what she’s reading.

She turns the page. John Proctor is going on and on … Her class is doing a dramatic reading, so she’s already heard this all once. She’s lucked out this year and landed in an English class full of aspiring dramatists; there is no shortage of volunteers to read, so Spencer sits in her seat in the back row and tries to follow along despite the overwhelming tedium of every aspect of the exercise.

It’s only September. There are seven months to go, but Spencer is so totally done with high school. She’s just over it.

There’s just a few minutes left until the bell rings. Her legs are cramped from sitting still so long. She stretches them out in front of her, flexes one ankle, then another. She grimaces; she’s still achy from this summer’s growth spurt. Three inches in three months is kind of awful, as it turns out, although she’s not complaining about the extra height. Ms. Lewisson, the girls' basketball coach, has been hounding her to try out for the team this year.

Ms. Lewisson is nice and pretty cool for a teacher, but she’s delusional if she thinks Spencer’s playing basketball. Spencer might be tall, but she’s got the coordination of a baby giraffe (as Ryan once tactfully put it); organized competitive sports aren’t her thing, anyway.

The bell rings. Spencer gets to her feet and stretches once more, reaching up, standing on her very tippy toes. She pulls on her sweatshirt and wraps her scarf around her neck. _The Crucible_ \-- still unfinished -- gets shoved into the depths of her bag. She’ll skim tomorrow at lunch, and that’ll get her up to speed.

The entire school is flooding down the stairs and out into the cool autumn afternoon. Nobody wants to stay late on a day like this. The weekend’s bad weather has cleared up. The sky is that perfect clear shade of blue that Spencer loves. The trees have started to turn early this year, and there are bright red and orange and brown leaves scattered across the lawns and the sidewalks.

It’s not a long walk to the park, but Spencer dawdles. Brendon’s private school gets out twenty minutes later than her public high school does, and she’s got time to kill. She stops by the vintage store on Main Street. There’s a dress in the window -- navy, with three-quarter-length sleeves and a peter pan collar -- that she’s had her eyes on for weeks. It’s still there, hanging crisply from the mannequin. Maybe she’ll ask her mom to borrow the money.

By the time she gets to the park, Brendon’s waiting. She sees him from far off, even though he’s well concealed. Beyond the playground, beyond the duck pond, beyond the baseball diamond, there’s a willow tree, ancient and twisted, with boughs that sweep the ground. That’s where she and Brendon meet after school. That’s where he is now, backpack tossed carelessly on the ground, tie already undone. He always seems like he’s a few seconds from clawing his way out of his uniform entirely.

“Hey,” she says, ducking under the green willow curtain.

Brendon beams at her. “Hey Spence,” he says. “You’ll never guess what happened in chemistry today.”

Brendon’s lab partner caught their experiment on fire.

Sometimes Brendon’s ‘you’ll never guess’ stories are predictable, but Spencer honestly never would have guessed that.

“Did you have to stand under that chemical shower thing?” she asks.

“Yeah,” Brendon says. “It was totally lame though. I thought it was going to be like, purple foam or something, but it was just this water stuff.”

“Lame,” Spencer agrees. “Did they let you go home and get dry clothes?”

Brendon shakes his head. “Right, you’d totally think that, but no, they had these spare clothes in the office they made me change into.” He holds his shirt distastefully away from his body.

“You’re probably going to get lice or something,” Spencer says.

“Ew, or crabs,” Brendon says. “Oh man, how would I explain that one to my parents? They’d kill me.”

She snorts. “Tell them you got it from the wrestling mats in the gym. Kids get ringworm that way all the time. I saw it on the news."

Brendon sticks out his tongue and mimes gagging. "Ringworm? That's a real thing? I'm totally sticking to ping pong in gym class from now on. School is disgusting."

"Mmm," she says, nodding in agreement.

Brendon takes off his blazer and unbuttons his shirt. It's chilly, so he pulls the blazer back on over just his cotton undershirt. Brendon's skinny; she can see the shadows of his ribs in his chest. She can see the dark circles of his nipples through the thin cotton. He's not a bad-looking guy; his face looks different than it looked even last year -- it looks better now, suits him more.

"Do you want to make out?" she asks.

Brendon's eyes widen (but they don't bug out of his head like they did the first time she asked him, two years ago sitting in her basement, both of them nearly bored to death). "Um, totally," he says, and he scrambles to sit next to her. "Homecoming's next month. I don't want to be rusty."

"Are you going to yours?" Spencer asks.

She's thought about going to hers ... even thought about asking Brendon. There's not really anyone else she could ask, and they’re good friends, as far as those things go.

"Maybe," Brendon says. "I think I might ask Kelly-Ann. She's really nice and she knows all the lyrics to every song on _The Queen Is Dead_."

"Hmm," Spencer says. She's not such a fan of the Smiths.

She unwraps her scarf from around her neck. Brendon stares at her intently. This is just something they do sometimes -- it's practice for the day when one of them finally has a real relationship, or whatever. Brendon's lips are really red. They're redder than Spencer's -- redder than the lips of any girl she knows. She thinks that looks good.

Spencer's not really sure what she finds attractive yet. She's not even sure how she's supposed to know.

Brendon's kissing is enthusiastic, but he keeps his hands to himself, folded softly in his lap. Her legs are stretched out at an awkward angle. She's wearing new jeans, and there's probably going to be grass stains on the ass, but it's kind of worth it.

She likes the way that Brendon kisses. He’s gotten better since that first time.

They keep it up for a while, until dusk is coming on and Brendon's got to go home. He puts back on the ringworm-infested shirt, and buttons it up. His lips are even redder now. Spencer's still on the ground, one leg bent at the knee. Every time, this makes her want more, makes her want him to touch her neck, her shoulders, everywhere. She wishes he would try, just once.

"We've still got practice tomorrow, right?" Brendon asks while he does up his tie.

"Yeah," she says. "Ryan's coming over after class, so probably around four, I guess. Your parents are going to let you out this week?"

"They think I'm studying for biology with this kid from my temple," Brendon says. 

"Nice one," Spencer says. She gets to her feet and brushes the dirt off her butt and thighs.

"See you tomorrow, Spence," Brendon says, ducking under the curtain of willow boughs and out into the evening.

"Yup," Spencer says. She rewinds her scarf, and lingers for a moment. She closes her eyes and presses her palm against her belly.

At dinner that night, the inevitable topic of college applications comes up. Spencer’s father is late at work again, so it’s just the four of them. 

"It's a very well-regarded school academically," Spencer's mother says.

She’s a nurse at the health center at Rutgers, and if Spencer decides to attend, she'll get to go for free. Spencer's parents are very much in favor of this, but Spencer would rather spend the rest of her life working as a waitress than spend another four years in New Jersey. She's already got a list of schools picked out, in New York City and in New England. The applications are printed and waiting.

"Hmm," she says, pushing her spaghetti around her plate. "I don't think it would really broaden my horizons, though, staying at home for college. I already know how much this town sucks."

"You could have grown up in inner Alaska," Spencer's mother says. "I met a young man the other day who comes from a town where there's no roads going in or out. A plane flies in twice a week with supplies." She raises an eyebrow. "Think about that, Spencer Jane."

Spencer thinks that sounds horrible, but it’s not like people _have_ to live north of the Arctic Circle.

She tries to read a few more pages of _The Crucible_ before bed, but she falls asleep with the book still in her hand. It drops to the floor as she sleeps.

She dreams that night, but in the morning she doesn't remember what it was she dreamed. She blinks sleepily, not sure that she dreamed at all.

*****

Spencer's toenail polish is chipping off already. She wiggles her big toe. The metallic flecks in the polish catch the light, sparkling. Her feet are propped on the edge of the tub, and her butt is falling asleep from sitting on the cold tile of the bathroom floor.

She picks up her cell phone from where it's sitting in her lap, and she dials a number, and pauses before she presses the send button.

The house is silent, except for the gurgle of water through the radiators. The nightlight plugged in next to the sink makes weird shadows.

The phone is ringing. Spencer leans her head back against the wall.

"Hello?"

"Hey," Spencer says. "It's Spencer Jane."

"A-ha," Dallon says. "I thought I saw you air drumming in the audience tonight."

Spencer laughs, and tips her head forward so her hair falls in her face.

"I was there," she says. "Um, sorry I didn't call sooner. I've just been busy and stuff."

"I understand completely," Dallon says. "You should see my schedule! I wake up at ten, and I've got to eat breakfast by ten-thirty. And then there's a solid two hours of cartoons I've got to watch before I take a shower."

"Sounds rough," Spencer says.

"It’s very demanding," Dallon says.

He sounds a little bit different on the phone, a bit unfamiliar, which doesn't make sense because she only talked to him one time anyway. His voice -- deeper and more masculine than she remembers -- could belong to any man.

"So," she says. "Uh, were you serious about wanting to have me come and play with you?"

"One hundred percent serious," Dallon says.

She's relieved, but she's not dumb.

"Do you have a kit at your place?" she asks.

"Not a full kit, but I've got a bass, a snare, and two toms. Couple of high-hats, too."

"And your neighbors aren't gonna get pissed if we play at your place?"

"They're all deaf," he says. "Every single one of them."

She frowns.

"That was a joke," he says. "Made in poor taste."

"Oh," she says. She's so stupid. Of course it was a joke. "Right. Ha."

Dallon is quiet. Spencer hates talking on the phone because she hates feeling pressured to fill up these silent and inevitable gaps in the conversation. She stretches, shifts her weight. She's wearing a beat-up pair of old boxers and a T-shirt from her mom's work. It's cold in the bathroom even with the heat on.

"If you really want to play with me, maybe I could come over this weekend?"

She is careful to make it a question.

"I really do," Dallon says. "I'll brush up on my indie rock before you come over. I'm ashamed to admit it, but it's been years since I listened to _Slanted & Enchanted_."

This time, she laughs. "It's brave of you to be so honest," she says. "But I'm partial to _Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain_."

She's expecting another pun, but instead he says, "Hmm, well, now I know."

"Are you going to give me your address?" she asks.

The dark and quiet make her bold.

He waits while she walks back to her room to get a scrap of paper from her desk. The nib of her pen scratches audibly against the paper. It's running out of ink.

"I'll call you then, I guess," she says when he's done.

"You are a woman with a plan, Spencer," Dallon says.

"Um, yeah," she says. Maybe she's coming off as too anal or something. "So anyway, I'll call you Saturday."

"Apparently," Dallon says. "Goodnight, Spencer."

"Goodnight," she says.

She clutches her phone in one hand and lets herself collapse, boneless, on her unmade bed. Her chest is a little fluttery, a little tight with anxiety. It's so dumb. Like, what the fuck does it matter if she goes and plays drums with this guy for one stupid afternoon? It doesn't mean anything, and she knows it, but she's stupidly nervous anyway.

She breathes into her pillow until she feels calm, and then she gets up to put her phone back in her bag. The scrap of paper with Dallon's address, she folds carefully and puts in her wallet. She catches sight of herself in the mirror on her door: her hair is a long tangled mess, and there are dark circles under her eyes. She has a cut on her leg from shaving that morning. It's just a little thing, but it bled and bled and bled. She hadn't realized at first, not until she looked down and saw a trail of bloody footprints leading from the bathroom.

She looks like what she is: a seventeen-year-old girl. It’s difficult -- although less so than it was once -- to imagine how anyone could see her as anything else. She pulls her hair away from her face for a second -- she’s been thinking of getting it cut. It makes no different. She still sees herself.

*****

“Do you think guys think I’m hot?” Spencer asks.

She’s lying on Ryan’s bed with her head hanging off the end. Her hair just brushes the floor. She’s had to work herself up to asking this question, and her cheeks are red.

Ryan spins around in his computer chair. (He’s always ready to seize the dramatic out of the mundane.)

“Did you really just ask me that?” he says. “You’re like my sister, Spence. I can’t evaluate your hotness -- that would be gross.”

She rolls her eyes. “I didn’t ask if _you_ thought I was hot,” she says. “Just if, like, guys in general might think I’m hot.”

“I’m sure some guy somewhere thinks you’re hot,” Ryan says, in a patronizing way.

Spencer snorts. “Thanks for the vote of confidence,” she says.

Ryan is typing frantically. The patter of his fingers on the keys doesn’t stop even as he turns his head.

“Stand up,” he says.

Spencer rolls off the bed and onto her feet. She’s more than familiar with Ryan’s practiced evaluations of the female form. She bore them in silent frustration at first (how could she know what to say when, at age twelve, Ryan pronounced that Gillian’s breasts were, like, totally the best in the school?) but in recent years she’s taken to responding with a standard punch to the upper arm when he says mean things behind some girl’s back when they’re at the mall.

Ryan’s kind of a wimp, so it usually shuts him up.

“Turn around,” he says.

Spencer turns.

Ryan’s fingers still. The room is silent.

“Yeah,” he says. “You’re hot. You feel better now?”

“Yes, my fragile ego is totally buttressed by your vapid assessment of my physical attractiveness,” she says, rolling her eyes.

“You’re the one who asked,” Ryan says, turning back to the computer.

“I don’t know,” she says, lying back down on the bed. “It’s just weird. How are you supposed to know if a guy thinks you’re attractive or if he’s just being friendly?”

“Probably if he stares at your tits a lot, he thinks you’re hot,” Ryan says.

Spencer stares down at her chest. Her breasts are there, all right -- round and big enough that nobody would miss them or anything. They’re all right, she guesses, as far as breasts go, but she doesn’t really know why any guy would want to stare at them.

“What if he’s not a fucking perv?” she asks. “What if he’s not seventeen and horny all the time?”

Ryan spins again, one eyebrow raised. “An older man, Spence? Really?”

She feels her cheeks heat up. “It was just a hypothetical, you ass,” she says. “God.”

Ryan stares for a moment longer. She could tell him -- maybe she could tell him. They share a lot of secrets. But something stays her tongue at the thought of telling Ryan about Dallon.

“He’s probably staring at your tits anyway,” Ryan says. “They are pretty great.”

She throws a pillow at him in half-feigned outrage.

*****

"Can I borrow the car?" Spencer asks.

Her mom looks up. "Where are you going?"

"A friend of mine needs a ride," Spencer says. "His car broke down."

Spencer's mother's eyes narrow. "Ryan has class this afternoon, and I didn't think Brendon had a car ..."

"God, Mom," Spencer says. "I do have other friends. It's, um ... It's this guy Dallon I know. Ryan and I went to see his band play, and we started talking about our band and stuff and we became friends."

"Hmm," Spencer's mother says. There's a lot implied in that 'hmm.' "Fine," she says, after leaving Spence sweating for literally five minutes. "But you had better have your cell phone on you."

"I do," Spencer says. "I always do."

"Charged!" her mother calls after her as she grabs the keys from the counter and heads out the door.

Spencer pulls the phone out of her pocket. Well, half-charged will have to be enough.

She starts the car and adjusts the mirrors while it warms up. She glances down at the directions she printed from the computer. She's not familiar with the area of town where Dallon said he was. It's on the outskirts. 

It's weird that he called at all. She hadn't recognized his voice and had been five seconds from ending another stupid call from some sorry telemarketer when he said her name and stayed her hand.

"You're the only person whose number I have," he said, apologetically. "I feel like a really big jerk calling you."

"It's fine," she said. "I mean, you could try to hitchhike, but I don't think that really works any more. Everyone's convinced that everyone else is a serial killer, intent on hacking up the young innocents that they pick up on the roadside."

"Am I a young innocent?" Dallon asked.

"I don't know," she said. "Are you?"

He made her daring in her speech. Thinking about it now she squirmed with secondhand embarrassment, but she hadn't been embarrassed at the time and Dallon had not been embarrassed either. He'd laughed, and she'd laughed, and she had felt like she'd kinda figured something out.

She's not really sure what, though.

It's five-thirty, and there are still some kids on the sidewalks, walking home from late soccer practice or whatever. Spencer's mom let her walk to school until they moved to the bigger house after her dad got his new job. Her parents have always been willing to let Spencer do stuff that other parents wouldn't. She dyed her hair green when she was twelve (just temporary dye that washed out in six weeks, but still) and her mom lets her drink wine with Christmas dinner and stuff. It’s cool. Spencer doesn't know how Ryan deals with his father, whose approach to parenting seems to be the complete opposite. In his house, Ryan is always guilty until proven otherwise.

The unfamiliar roads that Spencer is driving on wind past the river, past the rundown factories of the town's manufacturing past. They're empty this time of day, too far away from any of the residential neighborhoods. There are trees -- birches, she thinks -- growing along the riverbank. They lean curiously over the road. Their golden leaves make a bright carpet.

Just when she thinks she's gone too far, just when the road is widening out into a country lane, she sees Dallon and his beat-up wreck parked in the grass at the edge of the road.

She pulls over and gets out.

"Hey," she says.

He is sitting on the hood of his car with his legs crossed. He's drinking a bottle of Dr. Pepper.

"Hey," he says. "Thanks a lot for coming to get me. I can't believe the old gal broke down on me way out here."

"What were you doing out here anyway?" Spencer asks.

"Just driving," he says.

"Ah."

Dallon doesn't make any move to get down, so Spencer just stands there, feeling awkward in tattered old jeans, swinging her mother's keys from one finger. The sky to the west is pink, peach, gold. It's cold enough that their breath makes tiny ghosts that dissipate as they rise.

Dallon slaps the hood beside him. "Let's watch the sun go down," he says.

Spencer climbs up and sits gingerly. She's not as relaxed as Dallon is.

"You really didn’t have anyone else to call?" she asks. "It was kind of weird that you called me."

He shakes his head. "Not a soul," he says. "I'm apartment-sitting for a friend of mine -- his band's on tour down in Florida. I could have called my parents, but they live in Utah, and I think they would have been a little put out at having to come all this way."

"But you didn't worry about me being put out," she says, cross. She folds her arms over her chest. It’s honestly not that big of a deal, coming out here, but she doesn’t want him to think she’s going to come running whenever he calls.

Dallon shrugs. "My fingers were crossed that you wouldn't be," he said. "And if you were, I guess I would have walked back."

"Well, that's dumb," she says. "There's a bus that runs into town, I think. You could have taken the bus."

"See?" he says. "I'm a newcomer 'round these parts. I didn't even know about the bus!"

Despite herself, Spencer laughs.

She draws her legs up to her chest. "Why are you apartment-sitting, then, if you don't know anybody around here?"

She's being kind of nosy, but she figures that Dallon owes her. She did come all the way out here for him, after all.

Dallon shrugs. "I needed a place to stay. My buddy had an apartment that needed watching. It worked out." He's looking straight ahead, into the neon-bright sun. His profile is edged in gold.

"You're kinda weird," she says. She pushes the sleeves of her sweatshirt up.

"I know," Dallon says. "I'll take that as a compliment."

He doesn't say anything else. She doesn't know what to say. She's not sure if it makes her glad that the reason he called her was just because hers was the only phone number he had, or if it disappoints her. Spencer kind of sucks when it comes to understanding people, and she's even worse at understanding how people make her feel. Her default reaction after she and Ryan fight is to give him the silent treatment. That seems like a way better approach than some awkward heart to heart about emotions.

The sun sets quickly. She closes her eyes, and then the liquid white gleam is gone under the horizon. The wind gusts, knocking a few dry leaves from their branches.

Dallon stretches his legs, leans forward so his forehead nearly touches his knees.

"I guess we should go," he says. "No telling what unsavory elements we'll run into out here in the dark."

She rolls her eyes. "Yeah, Jersey is overrun with zombie biker gangs. Didn't anyone tell you?"

She starts the car while he gets his bag from his back seat. He makes an exaggerated ordeal out of saying good-bye to his car, which Spencer thinks is dumb, because it just broke down and stranded him.

When she says that, he feigns horror and shushes her. "Don't say that! She's very sensitive."

Spencer laughs at how stupid he is.

The drive back into town is quiet. The streetlights are on now, and the roads are empty. It's quiet, even though it's not late.

"So you're from Utah?" she asks. She thinks it's probably polite to not just sit in silence. “That’s pretty far away.”

"Born and raised," he says. "Joseph Smith was my great-great-great-great grandfather."

"Oh," she says. She doesn't know what that's supposed to mean. Is he implying they're related or something, because of her last name? She doesn't know if Dallon knows her last name. She can't remember if she gave it to him, and she can't remember what he said when she answered the phone, even though it was only a few hours ago ...

"He was the founder of the Church of Latter Day Saints," Dallon says. "That was a Mormon joke. You can totally laugh."

"Oh!" she says. She laughs, weakly, but she feels dumb. She was probably supposed to learn that in American History last year, but she doesn't really like history that much. "That's weird. My friend Brendon is a Mormon, but he never talks about it. Did you have to wear a suit and go try to give people brochures and stuff?"

"Not only did I go on a mission," he says, "they sent me to Mongolia. I spent two years living in a yurt, drinking buffalo milk."

"You're lying," she says. "Okay, I'll believe you're the great-whatever of Joe Smith or whoever he is, but there's no way you went to be a Mormon missionary in Mongolia. That sounds like the start of a dirty joke."

He laughs. "Fine," he says. "You got me, Spencer. I went to North Carolina."

"Not quite as exotic," she says.

He nods in agreement.

"Did people slam the door in your face all the time?" Spencer doesn't think she could have handled that. She knows how her temper is -- she knows how easily she gets mad, sometimes.

"Yup," Dallon says. "But I figured it was good practice for getting booed on stage. Toughens up the skin."

"Hmm," Spencer says. "Isn't it weird to want to be a Mormon rock star?"

Dallon shakes his head. "I don't want to be a Mormon rock star," he says. "I'm a Mormon, and I want to be a rock star. Besides, I figure I'll be corrupted by the temptations of tour life. I'll stray from the path and end up doing sinful things like drinking coffee."

"You can't drink coffee?" Spencer is horrified. "That's almost inhumane."

Dallon laughs and laughs. "Yes, the prohibition on caffeine has always been at the heart of the criticism leveled at the LDS church." He shakes his half-empty bottle of Dr. Pepper. “I, however, have already fallen from a state of caffeine-less grace.” 

She can't tell if Dallon is laughing at her, but if he is it's kind of rude. They've already established that she's not exactly a scholar of Mormonism. “I would die without coffee.”

She turns up the radio. The reception is bad, but the song coming through the snarls of static makes her grimace. She turns the music back down.

"You're going to make a left coming up," Dallon says.

"Okay." He is tapping his fingers against the armrest. He has long, thin hands. They look like musician's hands. His fingers are probably even longer than Brendon's are -- but, then, he's taller than Brendon is.

Spencer makes the left. They're in a not-great neighborhood. Some of the old industrial buildings have been converted into apartments, but most sit empty. The streets are deserted. It's eerie.

"And I'm up here on the right -- the one with the cactus mailbox."

"Nice," Spencer says as she pulls up next to it. The building is more homey-looking than some of the others, with ivy climbing up the brick facade and a half-hearted attempt at a garden out front.

"Well," Dallon says. "Looks like I owe you a favor, Spencer."

"It's fine," Spencer says. "What else did I have to do but drive out to the middle of nowhere so I could give some random guy a ride?"

"Some random guy?" Dallon says. "You hurt me. I'm at least 'that tall creep who plays guitar' by this point."

A cat runs out of an empty lot, rank with weeds, darts across the path of her headlights, and vanishes into the dark.

"Sure," she says. "That sounds right." She smiles. "It really wasn't a problem, though. What else did I have to do?"

She had math homework, but she doesn't want to tell Dallon that. Besides, this was more fun than Algebra 2.

"Do you want to come up for a Dr. Pepper?" he asks.

"I'm going to pass this time," she says, laughing. "My m -- I've got to get home."

"Fair enough," Dallon says. "We're still on for jamming this weekend, right?"

"Sure thing," she says.

"Okay," he says. "Thanks again, Spencer Jane Smith. Have a good one."

She waits until he has the front door open before she pulls a k-turn and heads back to the highway.

*****

Brendon’s fingers are light on the keys. “Ooh,” he sings. “Ryan is late and Brendon is great and Spencer is ... uh, waiting and the hour is late and …”

“I don’t think you can rhyme late and late,” Spencer says. “Anyway, it should be ‘Spencer is great,’ don’t you think?”

Brendon stops improvising and grins. “I never said I was a lyricist, Spence,” he says. “But sure, you can be great too.”

He picks up his tune again. This time around, everyone is great -- except for Ryan, who is still late. Spencer rolls her eyes, annoyed at the whole world. She curls her toes. The cement floor of the garage is cold, and she’s only wearing socks. She’s got a pair of sticks in her right hand, but she’s not playing along with Brendon. They’ve already run through a handful of songs as well as they could manage with just guitar or keys and drums. It’s pointless, though -- they’re already down a bass player since Brent moved, and now Ryan’s bailing.

“We should just go inside and watch _Project Runway_ ,” she says.

“ -- and Spencer is done and the band is no fun and Brendon is -- “

She closes her eyes. She’s got a little bit of a headache. She wants to paint her nails tonight, and she isn’t going to have time. She’s so mad that Ryan blew them off. It’s not the first time, either. She knows that the kids he goes to school with are more interesting and smarter and cooler than she and Brendon are, but the band is serious. They all agreed they were going to take it seriously, do whatever they needed to do to make it work, and now he’s bailing.

Her phone vibrates then, so violently it slips right off the stair where it’s sitting. It falls to the floor. Spencer jumps up from her stool. She scowls. It’s not like she’s got a fancy cellphone or anything, but she knows her mom would be mad if she broke it.

“It’s Ryan,” she says, reading the text message. “He says he got caught up in studying with some kids from his econ class.”

Brendon mashes down on the keyboard. “That sucks,” he says. “That really sucks.”

“I could have told you he was going to blow us off,” Spencer says, starting to move her kit back into the corner. “He doesn’t care about the band any more. We’re just not as fun as his friends from college.”

Brendon frowns at her. “You are totally as cool as any college kid, Spencer.”

Spencer is glad she’s facing the other direction; she can feel the way she starts to blush. Her embarrassment reflex has a hair trigger, apparently, and she’s still not over the way it sometimes seem like Brendon’s determined to be her own personal cheerleading squad.

“Thanks,” she mumbles. “So -- _Project Runway_?”

“Of course,” Brendon says. “I’ve got a whole … uh, thirty-six minutes until curfew.”

“We can fast forward to all the Tim Gunn parts,” she says.

“Awesome,” Brendon says, grinning. “You’re the best, Spence.”

She smiles back at him, and holds the door open to let him go in first.

*****

“No!” Spencer says, laughing. “No, it’s not true! Say it isn’t so!”

“Yes!” Dallon says, clenching his raised fist. “It’s true, Spencer! I am and will always be a *N SYNC fan. Justin is just soooo dreamy.”

“At least say Backstreet Boys,” she says. “At least that! They were the originals.” She doesn’t mention that her first concert was a Backstreet Boys concert at the Meadowlands with Ryan. She’d been eleven and desperately in love with Nick Carter.

Dallon shakes his head. “The student becomes the master. *N SYNC rules.” 

Spencer just rolls her eyes.

“You were the girl in high school who listened to the Pixies and wore Bright Eyes T-shirts and seemed so scarily cool I couldn’t even talk to you, weren’t you?” Dallon asks. He is lying back against the couch, with one arm over his eyes.

Spencer bites her lip, hesitant. Dallon’s friend (name unknown) lives in a gorgeous restored loft, with wide plank floors and big windows that let in buckets of warm sunlight. It’s really warm for October, and Spencer is sweating. She wipes her brow.

“I just have good taste,” she says. “It’s not my fault.” She didn’t even know who Bright Eyes were until she was a sophomore.

He shakes his head. “Good taste in music and a drummer to boot,” he says. “Where have you been all my life?”

Is that flirting? She can’t tell. It’s weird -- she’s not dressed up nicely or anything, and now she wonders if she should be.

“Stuck here while you were off converting yaks to Mormonism, probably,” she says.

“I’ve never met more spiritual yaks,” Dallon says. “They were very grateful for my effort.”

Spencer gets up. Her hands are sore. They played for two hours, running through every song they both knew. It was kind of great. Spencer loves Ryan and Brendon (even when they drive her crazy) but she’s sick of them all pretending their stupid band is going to go anywhere. Maybe it could have, once, but things are falling apart now and she’s sick of having to act like it matters, like they’re ever going to play for an audience larger than Spencer’s mom. It’s nice to play with someone who is a professional. It makes her feel like maybe she should bring her kit when she goes away to school next year, or buy one when she gets wherever she’s going.

“I’m going to get some water,” she says.

She takes a cup from the cabinet and fills it at the tap.

“Can you grab me a soda?” Dallon asks. “I’m parched.”

She is about to ask what kind he wants, but then she opens the fridge. There’s nothing in it but cans of Dr. Pepper.

Laughing, she hands him the can. “So are you some kind of vampire or something that survives on Dr. Pepper alone?”

Dallon bares his teeth. “You’ve discovered my secret!” he says in an awful and vaguely Eastern European accent. “Now I’m going to have to suck your blood.”

That -- that’s definitely flirting. Isn’t it? When they were in middle school, Ryan used to read her the dating advice columns in the _Seventeen_ magazines he shoplifted from the deli around the corner from his house. They were sort of insulting and basically useless, but she wishes she could remember some of that awful advice now. She doesn’t want to be some brainless thrall of the patriarchy or whatever, but she doesn’t have any other ideas about how these things are supposed to work. Is she just supposed to ask him?

She hands him the soda, and sits down at the other end of the couch. There’s a cushion and a half’s worth of space between them. He pops the tab on the can and drinks. She tries not to make it obvious that she’s watching. She thinks that she thinks Dallon is hot. It’s weird that she doesn’t know for sure, but, honestly, most of the times when she’s said that -- at middle school sleepovers, gossiping about people from school with Ryan, talking to her mom about some guy in a movie or something -- she’s just meant that she thought they were nice looking. When she looks at Dallon and thinks he’s hot, she thinks she means that she wants to have sex with him. It’s weird.

“So how long have you been playing?” Dallon asks. “You definitely know your way around a kit.”

She looks up. “Since fourth grade,” she says. “My best friend Ryan asked for a guitar for Christmas that year, and he made me ask for a drum set so we could start a band. We still play together.”

“And I assume international superstardom is next on your agenda?”

“Not quite,” she says. “We just lost our bassist. We’re working on finding someone else, and then I guess we’re going to start playing some shows around maybe.”

“You don’t sound very enthusiastic.”

She shrugs. “The band’s not … we’re not doing anything special. And I’m thinking about moving next year,” she says. “Up north, probably. Or maybe to the city.”

“Well, you shouldn’t stop playing. There’s lots of bands up north,” Dallon says. “That’s what I gather, anyway. I’ve only been through on tour.”

She sits up straighter. “You went on tour?”

He nods. “Sixteen cities in eighteen days,” he says. “It was a few years ago. I self-released an album and basically bankrupted myself.”

“Wow,” she says. From the time she was a little girl, Spencer let Ryan fill her head with dreams of making an album and going out on tour. For a long time, her tried and true reply when asked what she wanted to be when she grew up was a drummer in a rock band. “That’s so cool.”

“It was,” Dallon says. “I hope I get to do it again someday.”

“I bet you will,” Spencer says. “You’re really talented. I mean, you’re way better than the people that usually play the bars around here.”

“Talent doesn’t matter,” Dallon says. His face wears a more somber cast than she’s seen before. “After that first record, I got offered a contract. But they wanted me to ditch the people I’d been playing with and work with this songwriter to make my stuff more ‘palatable’ and I didn’t want to do it. So I said no.” He frowns. “I think about what would have happened if I’d said yes all the time.”

“You’d probably be on MTV or something,” Spencer says. “You wouldn’t be here bullshitting with me.”

“That would be a shame,” Dallon says.

“Yeah,” she says, and she wonders if this is when she should try to kiss him.

She runs a finger against the grain of the fabric on the couch, and then smoothes it out.

The moment passes.

“If you move, you’ll have to send me your address,” Dallon says. “I’m collecting places to stay, and I’ve been thinking about trying out New York City for a while now.”

“I will,” she says. “I don’t know where I’m going to end up yet, though … Um, my mom -- she really doesn’t want me to go away.”

“My parents hated when I moved to Los Angeles,” Dallon says. “My mom called me every day.”

“Really?” Spencer says. “I thought …” She frowns. “This is going to sound dumb, but I guess I thought it was different for guys.” 

Dallon stares at her. He’s usually animated and kinetic, but sometimes he stills and slows down and watches her and she wonders if he’s catching on to how young she is. She sounds so naïve. 

“I think it’s different for everyone,” he says.

She stares down at her hands, fingers spread wide. The nail polish she’d hurried to put on has already started to chip, and she’s got a nasty hangnail on her index finger that hurts really badly.

“Yeah,” she says. “You’re probably right.”

Dallon stands up. He sets his soda down on the counter. “What time did you say you had to go?”

“I’ve got a thing at three,” Spencer says. That’s what time her mom needs the car back, anyway.

“It’s just after two now,” Dallon says. “We could grab a slice of pizza if you wanted. There’s a decent place a few blocks away.”

Spencer is pretty hungry. “Sure,” she says. “I’m game.”

They bundle up against the chill in coats and scarves. Dallon locks the door with a key he takes from under the mat. He slips it back, and holds his finger to his lip. "Shh," he says. "Top secret." 

"Don't worry," she says. "I'm not going to break in and steal your Dr. Pepper." 

He grins at her, devious. 

They walk with their hands in their pockets to the pizzeria. The streets are deserted in this part of town, all the auto shops and whatever closed for the weekend. Spencer stares down at the broken sidewalk and listens to Dallon talk about recording his album, about how great it was, and how difficult, and how he's willing to give up so much to be able to play music for a living, but not everything -- not anymore. 

"I guess at a certain point you realize that there are more important things -- and people," he says. 

She swallows. He can't ... he doesn't mean ... does he? No way. She's being stupid. She keeps her head down and says, "Yeah." 

The pizza place is really just a few blocks away. It's tiny, just a handful of vinyl booths and a counter with a couple stools. It smells wonderful inside, and Spencer realizes how hungry she is -- she ate cereal for breakfast, but that was hours ago now. Dallon orders first -- two slices with pepperoni. She gets two with broccoli and garlic, and watches as the guy slides the slices into the oven. She takes out her wallet to pay, but the cashier shakes his head. 

"I got you," Dallon says. "Least I can do after borrowing your drum prowess all day." 

"Thanks," Spencer says. "You didn't have to do that." 

"My pleasure," he says. 

They sit down at one of the booths to wait. It's tiny and they are both tall and it is inevitable that their knees brush. Spencer normally feels so awkward at this sort of unintended physical contact, but she doesn't this time. They bump knees once more and Dallon says, "If you want to play footsie, just ask." 

She rolls her eyes, but inside she's sort of freaking in a way that totally belies her feigned cool. 

The pizza is ready. Dallon goes up and grabs both plates. 

"Dinner is served," he says as he sets hers down. 

"Thanks," she says, and she busies herself with the red pepper. 

"I like a woman who likes spicy food," Dallon says, waggling his eyebrows. 

"You are like the opposite of smooth, aren't you?" she says. 

"Right," Dallon says. "I'm chunky." 

She can't help herself. She bursts into laughter. She doesn't really believe he acts this goofy normally, but she isn't quite sure why he's doing it now. 

"I've always liked chunky better, myself," she says, and then she realizes how that sounds and she stammers, "Peanut butter, I mean." 

Dallon looks bemused. 

Spencer is kind of devouring her pizza, but whatever, she's hungry and she hopes Dallon isn't the kind of guy who would judge her on how fast she eats a slice of pizza. He's devouring his, too, anyway. 

When they're done, she wipes as much of the grease off her fingers as she can with the tissue-thin napkins. "This place is really good," she says. 

"A hidden gem," Dallon says. "The food is excellent, but I guess some people take issue with the ambience." 

"Seems fine to me," she says, taking in the grimy tile floors and the florescent light flickering overhead.

"Perfect for a romantic first date, right?" Dallon says. 

Her eyes go wide. Is that what this is? She thought ... well, she had considered that possibility, but had written it off as insane optimism on her part. 

She really needs to talk to Ryan about all of this. She doesn't know what she doing. 

"Perfect," she says, smiling. 

Dallon smiles too, and he watches her so intently that she is unnerved. 

It's quarter to three. Spencer has to get going, so they start walking back to her car. 

"So," Dallon says. "What are you doing this weekend, Spencer?" 

Algebra homework is probably not the answer he expects. "Stuff," she says. "You know." 

"Ah," Dallon says. "Stuff. I see." He mimes rubbing his chin. "Well, if you can tear yourself away from stuff for a little while, I'm playing again on Friday night. If you want to come and hear me I could probably pull a few strings and get you put on the guest list." 

"Wow, really going the extra mile, huh?" 

Dallon shrugs. "I'm that kind of guy," he says. 

She rolls her eyes. "I know everyone who works the door," she says. "But yeah. I'll come on Friday." 

"Awesome," Dallon says. "I'll see you then, Spencer." 

"See you," she says, waving. 

He walks back toward the apartment. 

Her heart is beating so fast she has to sit and breathe in and out deeply for a few minutes before she can trust herself to drive. She turns the radio up and sings along to the happiest songs she can find the entire ride home.

 

*****

Spencer takes the money from her savings account and buys the navy dress after school on Friday. She didn’t want to ask her mom. It doesn’t really cost that much, so she doesn't feel that guilty, even though that money is supposed to be for college. At home, she takes it carefully off the hanger and pulls it over her head. It fits, but it's tighter than she's used to her clothing being. She pulls it down and looks at herself in the mirror. The fabric pulls just a little around her belly, around her thighs. It doesn't look bad though. She doesn't think it looks bad.

She reaches over her shoulder and tries to zip it up without getting her hair caught. She feels like she's trying to tie herself into a knot. Finally the zipper moves past a snag and she pulls it up.

Spencer doesn't blow-dry her hair, because, honestly, it just seems kind of like a waste of time. But she does brush it out and clip her longish bangs back away from her face. Her mother insisted she wear bangs from the time she was a little girl until the last year, when Spencer had angrily and violently refused to get her hair cut ever again unless her mother relented on the bangs issue. She likes the way her hair looks now. She looks older, she thinks. Not like such a little kid any more.

She pulls on her pantyhose, trying hard not to get a run in them before she's even got them on. She borrowed a pair of boots without asking from the very back of her mother's closet. They're black and they lace up and they have a heel; they look way cooler than anything Spencer can imagine her mother wearing, and she's not sure where they came from.

Spencer doesn't really wear makeup usually -- maybe just a little mascara -- but she has some, at least. She frowns at her reflection in the vanity mirror, and dumps her makeup bag out on the bathroom counter. She's pretty thankful she doesn't have any gross zits right now. She tries to go easy on the foundation and powder. One time, in ninth grade, she'd worn make-up to school (just, you know, to see if people noticed or whatever) and she'd put on too much and Ryan had laughed and called her pancake face and told her to go wash it off in the bathroom before anyone saw.

In retrospect, it was probably a good thing he'd told her, but she will never forget how much his words hurt, how bad they made her feel.

With all this goop on her face, she feels like she's wearing a disguise, almost. Nobody -- Dallon least of all -- is going to think the woman with the smoky eyes and bright red lipstick is a dopey seventeen-year-old girl. She feels kind of dumb, because Dallon already basically knows she's a dopey girl -- he knows everything except the seventeen part, and she's not sure why she feels like she needs to dress up tonight. Except maybe it is different, because he asked her to come see him play again, a third time, and at a nice bar in Princeton this time, a bar where Spencer has no connection at the door, a bar Spencer is not sure she can get into, even though Dallon put her name on the guest list.

Her grandmother buys her perfume every year for Christmas. Spencer never wears it, but now she sprays some on her neck and her wrists, like she's seen  
women do in movies. She dithers on her computer for a while. It's only eight o'clock. Dallon's set is at nine. She's already told her mother she's going to a party with Ryan. She's pretty grateful that her mother is awesome enough not to ask more questions. That just makes Spencer feel guiltier, though.

She goes downstairs. Her mom is sitting on the couch. Jackie is asleep next to her, head cradled on their mother's lap.

"Nice shoes," her mom says, as Spencer stands by the door getting her coat from the closet.

"Uhh … Can I borrow them?" Spencer asks.

“You can borrow them,” her mother says. “You look very nice, Spencer.”

"I guess this party is fancy or something. Ryan said to dress up. He could just have been making that up though because he bought this awful green velvet jacket the other day and I know he's been looking for an excuse to wear it."

Her mother smiles. "That sounds like Ryan. Your phone is charged?"

"Yup," Spencer says.

"And you'll call me if you're going to stay over Ryan's, right?"

"Definitely," Spencer says. "I'm not sure yet, but I'll call either way."

"Good," her mom says. "Have fun tonight, honey."

"I will," says Spencer, ignoring the nerves that roil her stomach. "Love you, Mom."

"You too, honey."

*****

Dallon is waiting for her by the door.

"You all set?" he asks.

"Yup," she says. "You're sure you don't want to hang out here?"

"Positive," Dallon says, nearly shouting to be heard over the noise. "I feel terrible depriving my adoring audience of my presence so soon, but I trust they'll be able to carry on without me."

"They’ll have to bring in grief counselors," she says, “but I imagine they’ll get by.”

They step outside. It is a cold night, bright with stars.

"You're good to drive?" Dallon asks.

She doesn't know what he means, for a second. "Oh," she says. "Um. Yeah. I didn't have anything to drink."

He smiles. "I don't care if you drink alcohol, you know. You won't offend my Mormon sensibilities."

"No," she says. "It's cool. I just wasn't in the mood."

"Cool," he says.

Spencer is parked a few blocks down. She didn't want to risk a scratch to her mother's car by leaving it in the bar's parking lot. Dallon whistles a tune as they walk down the empty side street.

"I want to hear some of the full band arrangements of your stuff," Spencer says. "If you don't cough up your album, I'm going to have to illegally download it."

Dallon snorts. "I'd be pretty happy if you could find it to illegally download," he says. "But I've got a few copies at the apartment. I think I can spare one."

"Awesome," Spencer says.

She hops over a crack in the sidewalk. She isn't drunk -- really, she had nothing to drink -- but she is giddy on the success of the evening. Getting into the bar, going backstage, talking with Dallon while the first band performed: all of it seems glazed in some cinematic light, like she was watching someone else all evening, someone with more poise and luck and charm than she possesses.

They drive back to the apartment with all the windows open. Spencer's hair is windblown. Dallon hangs his arm out the window. He tells a story about the first show he played outside of his hometown. He was the first opener on a four-band bill at a desolate dive in Reno, Nevada. He went on at six o'clock, and there were four people in the audience. It's kind of pathetic, but the way he tells it makes her laugh.

Spencer parks in the driveway. The light is on over the side door. Dallon has his equipment in her car; she doesn't know how he got it to the venue, but she knows his car is still not running. They carry the equipment up the stairs. The door is locked. Dallon fumbles with his keys.

"You can just leave that there," Dallon says.

Spencer sets the amp she's carrying down.

The apartment is dark. Dallon disappears into some inner room with his guitar. Spencer unbuttons her coat. She looks out the window onto the empty road below. A cat -- maybe the cat she saw the first night -- is sitting near the garbage cans. Its green eyes glow in the lamplight.

The lights come on. Dallon's hand is on the switch. "I'm not paying for the electricity or anything," he says.

She rolls her eyes. He sits down on the couch.

"Did the cat come with the apartment?" she asks.

"Hmm?" Dallon looks up.

Spencer points out the window. "I saw him down there the night I gave you a ride home," she says. "I thought maybe he was your friend's."

"Oh," Dallon says. "No, no cats. I think I might have agreed to care for a few roaches though."

"Just a stray, I guess," Spencer says. She rolls her neck and drops down in the armchair. "I'm totally taking off my shoes, also. Ignore my smelly feet."

"Dutifully ignored," Dallon says.

She bends over to untie the laces. Her hair falls all around her face. She pries her feet out of the boots. Maybe the reason she never saw her mother wearing them is because they killed her feet. She looks up, and Dallon is watching her.

"You were going to let me listen to your album," she says.

"Right," he says, and he gets up. There's a stack of CDs on a shelf. He rummages until he finds the one he's looking for.

Spencer rolls her ankles. She's going to be hobbling for a week because of those boots. She's pretty thankful she doesn't go to Brendon's school, where they've got to wear stupid dress shoes with their uniforms. Chucks are a lot more forgiving.

"So are you going to put out another album?"

Dallon nods. "Sure, if I can do it without having to sell out to the man."

"The man?" Spencer laughs.

"Sure," Dallon says. "You know the record industry is run by a bunch of squares who just want to keep cool cats like us down."

"Riiight," she says. "Whatever you say, daddy-o."

He snaps his fingers twice. The cd starts. His voice and his words fill the room. She listens.

"Did you play the drums?" she asks.

"Nope," he says. "My friend Matt did the honors."

"He's pretty good," she says. "Could have done something more exciting with the fill on 'All the Drugs,' though."

"Duly noted," Dallon says. "I'll pass that along."

The track ends. Spencer stands up and walks across the room. Her stocking feet whisper against the floors. The cat is still sitting outside.

"Do you want something to drink?" he asks. "I feel like a bad host. My mother would be ashamed."

"I really don't like Dr. Pepper," she admits. “I can’t pretend any longer.”

"Blasphemy!" he says.

She sits down on the couch, one cushion away. She crosses her legs at the knee. "Didn't you ever hear that soda stunts your growth?"

"You may be on to something," Dallon says. "I'll have you know I'm the shortest guy in my family."

He's easily six foot two.

"Really?" she asks. "Geeze."

"You don't exactly look stunted either," he says.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing," Dallon says. "You're tall, is all."

"Oh," she says, a little puzzled. She was ready to be defensive. She is used to snide remarks – about her height, about her body, whatever. She uncrosses her legs. It might not be lady-like, but she's starting to get a cramp.

Dallon's hair is falling in his face. Honestly she thinks the way he wears it is kind of dumb, but she hasn't said anything. It doesn't really matter that much.

He glances over at her quick, but not quick enough. She sees.

"I don't know if this is totally idiotic of me," he says, voice low, "but I want to kiss you. Is that okay?"

She smiles. Something inside her thrills. "I've been wondering if you did," she says.

She scoots forward across the couch. Their knees brush. His hand comes up and finds her shoulder. His thumb rests against the point of her jaw. She puts her hand on his leg, mid-thigh. It's startling how warm he is. She has been waiting for this, she thinks. She likes him so much and she's so nervous that she is going to mess up and ruin it. She knows she's going to. She knows he's going to find out. He leans forward and kisses her.

It's really different than it is with Brendon. Dallon is slower, softer, easier. His other hand curls around her waist. She doesn't know what to do with _her_ other hand. She wonders if putting it on his shoulder would be too bold. She does it anyway. He doesn't seem to mind. She feels like every inch of her skin is tingling.

She has no idea how long they've been kissing when his lips leave her skin and he whispers, "Your hair smells really nice."

It's such a stupid Dallon-ish thing to day. She closes her eyes. “It’s just Suave or something,” she says. 

“No, you’re suave,” he says, and oh god. That is the worst joke ever. He is so lame, and so funny, and so cute, and his hands on her and hers on him make her feel differently than she’s ever felt.

She likes him so much, and she feels so bad.

"I have to tell you something," she says quickly. She pulls away and folds her hands in her lap. "I'm really sorry. I should have told you." She can't look at him, so she just stares at her nails, at her ragged cuticles. "I'm seventeen."

He doesn't say anything, and the trembling feeling solidifies into a lead weight that sinks in her belly. She looks up, and his expression is grave.

And she knows then that whatever chance she had she just royally screwed up. She knows that she should have done something else -- probably just not have told him. How long is he even going to be housesitting for anyway? He’s going to leave, and it won’t matter. She stands and grabs for her boots and her coat, tossed carelessly on the floor. Without looking back, she goes alone into the night.

*****

"Wait," Ryan says. "Which one was he, again?"

Spencer sighs, pained. "Stop torturing me. You remember him," she says. "Tall. Longish hair. Played the guitar."

Ryan puts down the spatula he's wielding and turns. "You just described like half the guys I know. You just described _me_."

"Gross," Spencer says. She sighs again and lays her head down on the table. "Stop being such a jerk. You remember him. It was that night you bailed and left me all alone."

Ryan looks thoughtful. Behind him, the pancakes sputter. Spencer thinks she can smell something burning, but she doesn't have enough will to live to consider it worth mentioning. At this point, dying in a grease fire might not be that terrible of an option. Besides, Ryan is not a very good cook, but pancakes are his idea of consolation. He’s trying to help, but Spencer is not feeling very consoled.

"Oh yeah," he says at last. "The guy with the scene kid hair." He pauses. "Wow. Him, huh."

"Yeah, him," she says. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Ryan shrugs. His sharp shoulder blades shift under his tee shirt. "He just seemed like he knew what he was doing."

"And I don't?"

Ryan flips the pancakes, or tries. He screws up one of them and it ends up folded into a doughy blob. "Not really," he says. "Sorry, Spence, but I don't think making out with one random guy at a party two years ago counts as knowing what you're doing."

Spencer presses her nose into her forearm. As far as Ryan’s concerned, that’s the extent of her romantic experience. She's never told him about fooling around with Brendon. She doesn't know why, exactly – he’s definitely not a hidden rival for her affections. It just seems like the kind of thing she needed to keep quiet about.

It’s not like Brendon is beating down doors to tell people, either.

"You're right," she mumbles. "I obviously don't know what I'm doing. I probably ought to go join a monastery.”

Ryan is attempting to flatten the ruined pancake back into shape. “Monasteries are for monks. You’d be a nun, so you’d have to join a convent.“ He bites his tongue and flips the pancake over again. “Besides, it may be premature to make that decision.”

She huffs, annoyed. "Whatever," she says. "You basically just told me I’m hopeless and I’m destined to be alone forever.”

Ryan sets a plate down by her head. It clatters. Spencer drags herself into a sitting position.

"I didn’t say that,” he says. “I just said that this Dallon character seems a little more experienced than you.

Spencer sighs and cuts her pancakes into little squares. They’re not the best pancakes in the world. Spencer's not sure how they managed to come out so rubbery when Ryan used a mix. Still, doused in sticky artificial syrup, they're edible.

"So, like," Ryan says, mouth full. "What exactly happened? This old dude started hitting on you, and then you were making out, and you were stung by some sudden bout of conscience?"

"He's not old," Spencer says. "God, you make him sound like some middle-aged weirdo."

"How old is he?" Ryan asks, eyes narrowed.

Spencer cuts her pancakes vigorously. "I don't know," she says. "I didn't ask him for his biography. I guess he’s … he's probably twenty-three or something."

"Well, that's not that old," Ryan says. "I was kind of worried."

"Worried about what?" Spencer demands. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I don't know," Ryan says. "It's just weird, thinking of you dating some old guy."

"I'm over the age of consent in this state," Spencer says. "I'm fully capable of making my own informed decisions about my sexual partners."

Ryan snorts. "So you're going to keep hooking up with him?"

"I wouldn't really call it hooking up," she says. "And I don't know. No, probably not. He hates me now."

"You think he hates you," Ryan says. "You don't know because you ran away."

"He looked like he hated me," Spencer says, miserable. She drags her fork through the tacky puddle of syrup left on her plate. "I should have just told him the truth from the beginning. Now he probably thinks I'm just some idiot teenager."

"Or you should have kept lying," Ryan says, deadpan. "That would have worked too."

Spencer throws a napkin at his head. "You suck at giving advice," she says.

"No," Ryan says. "My advice is great. You just suck at following it."

Her mother doesn't say anything when she gets home, just asks Spencer if she had a good time. Spencer fakes a smile and says she had fun. In her bedroom, she strips off the clothes she borrowed from Ryan -- the pajama pants that are too tight in the hips, the T-shirt that clings to her boobs -- and takes a shower. The hot water makes her feel better, but makes her tired too. 

She puts on her own soft pajamas and lies down in her bed. It's not even late, and she has homework to do, but she can't stop replaying what happened. Sometimes she remembers it just as it happened: Dallon's strong hands on her body, and then her awkward, unwanted confession and the horrified expression on his face. She doesn't think she'll ever be able to forget that expression. 

Sometimes, though, she thinks about what would have happened if she hadn't said anything, if she'd kept her stupid secret to herself. What would he have done? He's always so polite. Would he have asked her before he tried to take off her shirt or touch her boobs? Did boys do that? Did he even want to? Making out with Brendon hasn't prepared her for these possibilities. 

What would she have done if he'd asked her into his bedroom? She tries to imagine what it looks like, and she can't. Probably a lot of pillows, though. Dallon seems like he'd like a lot of pillows. She likes him so much. If he'd asked her into his bedroom -- if he'd tried to undress her -- she wouldn't have minded. She still wouldn't mind. She knows that she's not supposed to just sleep with a guy, but every time she thinks about it, she thinks that's what she would have done.

She's not a slut, even though that’s what the girl at school who sleep with their boyfriends get called. God, she's barely kissed three people in her entire life. She just likes him. She likes the way he looks. She likes the way his hands had felt on her. She tries to imagine what it would have felt like if she had slept with him -- if he had fucked her. She can't, though, not exactly. She knows the mechanics of it in abstract, but that doesn’t translate into sensation. 

He would have made her laugh. She's sure of that.

She wants him so bad, still. She can feel it, an ache centered below her belly button. She slides her hand under her waistband, sighs as it smoothes over her soft belly. Nobody ever told Spencer about masturbation. Ryan had told her how boys did it so long ago, when they were in third grade. He's always been precocious. She'd gone home and tried to figure out how it worked for girls, but his explanations had been unhelpful. Somehow, fumbling, she'd found what worked: two fingers rubbing circles on her clit, hard and fast, and the palm of her hand pressing down on her pubic bone. She loves this. She hasn't ever talked about it with anyone -- she couldn't ever tell Ryan, and Brendon ... well. He probably thinks girls really look like Barbies down there. 

She closes her eyes and cups her breast with her other hand. She wonders if Dallon would do this to her. His mouth on her, his agile tongue. She thinks that would feel so, so good. She rubs faster, fingernails digging in just a little bit, and sighs. She's lucky she's at the top of her house, so her mother can't hear. She's only ever done it like this -- clothed, hidden under the covers, the band of her underwear digging into her wrist, but she imagines lying naked on Dallon's bed, bare and sprawling and unashamed. His head is buried in between her legs, and her foot is curled around his back. He sucks and he bites, and he laps into her -- she's barely done that, barely been brave enough to slide one finger inside herself, but she bets Dallon knows how. She bets he would know how to make her feel so good.

Eyes closed, she climaxes. Her whole body clenches tight, and her hips buck up once, twice, a third time. 

She lays there for a long time, hand still down her pants. It's not always as good as that. No, it's never been as good as that, she thinks, and she knows that if he'd asked her -- if he'd wanted to fuck her -- she would have said yes.

 

*****

Spencer sits in homeroom on Monday morning with her algebra book open in her lap, scribbling quadratic formulas. She didn’t do her math homework. She has the bad luck of being in homeroom with half the jerky kids on the football team. (There could be cool, nice, well adjusted kids on the football team -- but if there are, she doesn't know them.) This morning they're talking about some party that someone threw over the weekend. Spencer doesn't care. It sounds awful.

The gray day goes so slowly. She nearly falls asleep in English class. They have finally finished reading _The Crucible_. Now they're watching the movie. Spencer thinks that's kind of a cop-out, honestly. Teachers are probably just as desperate for a break as their students. She thinks next year, once she's at college, she'll finally find someone who's worth talking to.

The weather has turned colder. In chemistry class, Greta leans over and whispers, "I really like your scarf."

Spencer smiles. She and Greta went to elementary school together. They'd been great friends, but, like happens sometimes, they grew apart. Greta got really into theater in high school. Spencer would never say this, but she thinks it's kind of lame that everyone makes such a big deal about the school plays, which are usually awful and at best mediocre.

"Thanks," she says. "My mom made it for me."

"That's so cool," Greta says. "I wish I knew how to knit."

Spencer's mom has offered to teach her, but she's never taken her up on that offer. She's about to say something to that effect – maybe even ask Greta if she wants to come over sometime so they can both learn -- but then the teacher comes around to hand out worksheets, and the conversation is over.

She goes to the library again during last period. She sits in the last row of the stacks and she takes out her phone to text message to Ryan. She starts and erases the text message three times. She doesn't know what to say to him that wouldn't sound totally dumb. He never said anything really mean about what happened, but she knows how Ryan thinks. She knows what he would have said if a girl had done to him what she did to Dallon. She knows he would not be understanding.

She texts Brendon instead and asks if he wants to hang out. He says yes, so after the bell rings, she walks to the park with her hands in the pockets of her pea coat and her scarf wound up to her nose. Brendon is waiting for her at the swing set. His feet drag back and forth in the wood chips.

"You're going to scuff your shoes," she says, in lieu of hello.

"It's okay," he says. "I already have to polish them once a week."

They swing listlessly. If it were fifteen degrees colder, it would be perfect snow weather. As it is, the world is just chill and wet and dull.

"How do you deal with your parents?" Spencer asks suddenly. "Like, when you got caught smoking pot on the football field, what did you do?"

Brendon shrugs. "I just let them be mad at me," he said. "I apologized, and I let them be mad, and then they got over it."

She scrunches up her face. "But didn't it bother you that they knew you'd screwed up?"

Brendon stills himself with his feet. "I screw up all the time," he says. "I'm officially the black sheep of the Urie family, Spence."

"But your older siblings are creepy pod people," she says sympathetically. "You're just normal."

"Gee," Brendon says. "Thanks." He starts swinging again. "So what did you do to get your parents mad?"

She looks over at him. His hair is sticking out at odd angles from underneath the stupidest orange beanie cap she's ever seen, and his cheeks are red.

"Nothing," she says. "I just did something stupid and now somebody I really like thinks I'm a dumb little girl."

She thinks of Dallon, and how he had listened to her, and let her drum with him, and her eyes sting. She swallows down the hurt, and swings harder.

"Whoa," Brendon says. "That's really harsh, Spence. You're, like, the most mature, responsible, together seventeen-year-old on the entire planet."

"No," she says. "I don't have any idea what I'm doing."

Brendon's face twists unhappily, but he says nothing. The streetlights are coming on. Spencer thinks for a moment of telling Brendon everything, but the thought of anyone else knowing what an idiot she was is unbearable. Instead, she gets out her phone to check the time.

"I've gotta go home," she says. "Family dinner tonight."

"I probably should too," Brendon says. "I have so much math homework."

"I'll talk to Ryan," she says. "Maybe we can practice this weekend."

"We totally should," Brendon says.

"Goodnight," she says, gathering up her bag.

"Goodnight, Spencer," Brendon says. "You know I think you're awesome, right?"

Those words run through her like a bolt. She can't speak. She's spent so long thinking Brendon didn't like her (*like her* like her). It's been two years since the first time they made out, and she can still remember what it felt like. Her hands had been shaking as she'd pressed her lips against Brendon's, diffidently at first, and then with more pressure until she'd opened her mouth and he'd opened his and what she'd thought would be weird or disgusting had turned out to be great. Two years, and Brendon's never suggested he wanted to do anything more with her, let alone that he thought she was awesome, that she was special. Why would she let herself have a crush on someone who so clearly wasn't interested? Why would she put herself out there like that? 

She hasn't. She isn't brave enough. 

For him to admit that now turns everything on its head. She is angry, almost. If Brendon had grown a pair and said something sooner ... but now there's Dallon though, and what she feels for him is different than what she feels for Brendon, but it is no less strong.

*****

She is walking home from school when her phone buzzes. It's probably Brendon. She grabs the phone from her bag and then stops dead in her track. The new text is from Dallon.

_are you busy? i want to talk. can you come over my place?_

She knows she shouldn't go over to Dallon's apartment. She knows she should delete the text and block his number and forget this whole awful mess ever happened.

She knows that's what she should do, but she thinks maybe she's being given this one second chance.

So she texts him back: _Yeah. I'll be there in an hour._

Then she puts her phone on silent and does not check to see if he's replied.

She keeps her steps measured. She isn't some idiot girl running back into the arms of a jerk guy -- no. Dallon is her friend. She just wants to explain. She feels bad about the way everything worked out.

She drops her backpack on the ground and changes out of the skirt she wore to school and into a pair of only slightly dirty black jeans. She over trying to impress him. Seriously.

Her mom is at the table helping the twins with their homework.

"Can I borrow the car?" Spencer asks.

"I was going to go grocery shopping," her mother says.

Spencer pouts. Her mom is mostly immune, but it sometimes works. "Mom, this is really important."

"Where are you going?"

"I need to go see my friend Dallon," she says. "He's the one who I gave a ride to the other day."

Spencer's mother stares. Spencer knows all the questions she's thinking but not asking. Some of them are questions that Spencer has asked herself.

"Fine," Spencer's mother says. "Are you coming back tonight?"

"I think so. If I'm not, I'll call." She smiles. "You're awesome, Mom."

"I know I am," her mother says. "Be safe, honey."

Spencer turns the radio up high on the way over. She has an okay voice, but she's always been embarrassed to sing in front of people. Brendon's voice puts hers to shame. Alone in the car, driving through the darkening evening, she belts out the cheesy songs that dominate the radio. She wouldn't even know most of them, because it's not like she's following the pop charts, but her sisters have control of the radio in the car when they're all together.

Dallon's house looks the same. Same quiet neighborhood, same empty street. The cat's gone, though, or hiding. Spencer thinks maybe next time she'll bring a can of food to leave out.

She waits for a moment. Dallon can probably see the car. There's a perfect view of the street from the living room. She closes her eyes and steels herself for a confrontation, even though she's not sure that's what this is. She's not sure at all what this is -- why would he want to talk to her, after the lie she told?

But he does. Even if it’s just to provide one final upbraiding, that's enough, somehow.

She gets out of the car and locks it. The steps up to Dallon's front door are steep. She takes them slowly, delaying. Then she knocks. The door opens. Dallon is wearing faded jeans and a T-shirt with a hole in the shoulder. His hair stands up in the back. He looks like he's just woken up.

"Hey," he says.

“Hi.”

She doesn't move to step forward.

"Um," Dallon says. "Come inside."

She steps in. The living room looks exactly the same, except there's a tatty-looking blanket thrown over the couch.

She leaves her coat on and sits down at the edge of the armchair, shoulders hunched.

He does not look like he is thrilled to see her.

“So,” he says. “Is it a habit for you or something?”

“Is what a habit?” she asks, confused.

“You said you go to the bar all the time. Are you just looking for gullible guys to hook up with?” His face is drawn and unhappy. “I’m surprised you even really play the drums.”

“No, I’m not,” she says. “You came up to me, anyway -- remember? You lied to me too -- you never wanted me to drum with you. You just wanted to hook up.” She is filled with a surge of anger so sudden and strong she has to put her hands on her knees to keep them from shaking. “Did you really just ask me to come over here to give me shit?”

She starts to get up.

Dallon shakes his head. “Wait,” he says. “This isn’t how I wanted this to go.” He frowns. “I did want to see you play, Spencer. I thought you were awesome. I thought you were so awesome, and you lied to me, and that really sucks.”

“I’m sorry,” she says. She closes her eyes. “I just didn’t think anyone could have thought I was, like, twenty-one or whatever. It didn’t even occur to me.”

“You should have told me,” he said. He stands up, hands in his pockets. “I just … I liked you so much. You should have said something.”

“You should have asked me,” she says, still angry, although it is subsiding. “You didn’t ask. You just assumed.”

Dallon takes a long time to respond. 

“You know what they say about assumptions, right?"

Spencer shakes her head. "No, I don’t," she says.

"When you assume, you make an ass out of 'u' and 'me'."

He laughs at his own awful joke.

Spencer rolls her eyes. "That's terrible," she says.

"I am the king of terrible jokes," he says.

"I'll make you a crown," she says dryly.

"Good," Dallon says. "I'll wear it at my next show. Maybe I'll do a comedic interlude."

Spencer scowls. “Stop being funny,” she says. “I hate you. Stop it.”

Dallon sighs. He is sitting with his shoulders squared and his arms on his knees, leaning forward. Spencer is cold even though she's wearing her coat. This was a bad idea. She thinks maybe it's time to leave.

She stands up. “I’m going, if that’s all you have to say.”

“No,” Dallon says. “Wait. Come on.”

“You come on!” she says. “This isn’t my fault. I didn’t tell you, yeah, but you didn’t ask me. Stop trying to make me feel bad.” 

“That’s not what I’m trying to do,” he says. 

“That’s what you’re doing,” she says. “You’re making me feel like an idiot for even coming out here.”

“You’re not an idiot,” he says. "I don't know what to say, Spencer. I thought it was awesome that you were air-drumming and I think you're funny and I think you're pretty, sure. But I wish you hadn’t lied to me. I wish you weren’t seventeen.”

Frustrated, she clenches her fists. "What difference does that make? So you wanted to hook up with me before, when everything was exactly the same, when _I_ was exactly the same, but now that you know how old I am, it's different? I'm not a little kid. You didn't pressure me. I can make my own choices."

Dallon is quiet for a moment. "I didn't mean it that way," he says. "I don't think that you're a little kid, Spencer. I don't exactly qualify for social security. Six years isn't the end of the world."

"I don't get it," she says. "So if it's not the end of the world, why did you look so mad? Why did you let me leave?" She closes her eyes because her chest is starting to get tight and her hands are starting to get shaky. She doesn't want to cry in front of Dallon. She doesn't want to give that to him, too.

"I was surprised,” Dallon says. "I shouldn't have let you leave that night. That was a really stupid move. I'm sorry."

"You did, though," she said. "I thought you hated me.” Her voice breaks.

"Oh, Spencer," Dallon says. "I don’t hate you."

"It feels that way," she says. "I just ... I like you, Dallon. I think you're hot and funny and you're a really good musician and you paid attention to me. I thought you wanted me."

She has never said anything as embarrassing in her entire life. Spoken aloud, that sounds like the most stupid presumption she could possibly have made. Why would he have wanted her? Why would she have thought that?

“I do,” he says. He looked at her again, in that way that makes her feel like he’s seeing straight through to her core. “Spencer -- I do. But I just … I need to think. Six years isn’t the end of the world, but it makes a difference. I just don’t know right now.” He looks hollow-eyed, as sad and miserable as she feels.

There’s nothing else, just goodbyes.

"I guess I should go," she says.

"You don't have to," he says. “I don’t want you to walk out the door and never see you again. You can stay. We can watch a movie or something. I have popcorn."

"I hate popcorn," she says. "The kernels get stuck in my teeth."

"Blasphemy!" Dallon says. "Popcorn is the snack food of the gods."

"Ew," Spencer says. "No. Maybe the kettle corn they sell at the fair, but not microwave popcorn. Doritos are way better."

"Doritos I can do," Dallon says. "Although they're inferior."

Spencer smiles. "Wrong," she says. 

She takes off her coat.

They watch _Back to the Future_. Spencer sits with her bare feet curled under her and hogs the Doritos. Dallon has almost all of the dialogue memorized, and he can do all the voices. It's getting late. When the first movie, is over they put on another. Spencer takes her hair out of its ponytail. Dallon gets up to get another soda. Spencer’s head is heavy. She curls up, rests it on the arm of the couch. Her eyes are closing. Someone touches her ankle … Dallon. His hand is resting there. He looks over at her, as if to ask permission. She smiles at him sleepily. He smiles back, and does not move his hand. 

*****

Spencer wakes up, and she doesn't know where she is. She is very warm, and the sheets are soft, and there is someone in bed with her. The white ceiling is unfamiliar. She closes her eyes again, feels sleep start to weight her limbs, and she wonders why she can't remember what she's doing at Ryan's house.

Who else would she be in bed with but Ryan? There's nobody else. There never has been.

But Ryan’s sheets aren't white, and his bedroom is dark, not full of clear morning light. He keeps his blinds down all the time.

She opens her eyes and sits up slowly. Her hair is unbound and falls over her shoulders, dark against the light bedding. 

She is in Dallon's bed. Dallon is sleeping beside her, and she is wearing his T-shirt over her bra and underwear. 

It's Saturday morning, and she didn't call her mother to tell her she was staying out last night. Oh god.

She leans over the side of the bed to grab for her jeans. Her phone is tucked into her front pocket. There are no missed calls -- that's a good sign. At least her mother hasn't called 911 or anything yet. Spencer closes her eyes. Everything is fine. Her mom probably just assumed she stayed at Ryan's. She stays over all the time, even if she does normally remember to call beforehand. 

The last thing she remembers about the night before is laughing at some dumb joke of Dallon's, the spent bag of Doritos on the couch between them and a blanket thrown over their legs. She hadn't been drinking -- and neither had he -- but she'd felt kind of dizzy anyway.

She feels that way now, actually.

She hasn't shaved her legs in a while; she can see the fuzz of dark hair growing in. She hopes Dallon doesn't think she's gross or anything because she didn't shave. She knows that's supposed to be a big deal to guys, but Ryan and Brendon never care if she doesn't shave her pits. Frankly, it’s too much of a pain to do it all the time anyway. 

Dallon sleeps. His face is mashed into the pillow and his hair is a rat's nest. His shoulders are bare and he looks ...

She swallows. She needs to go. She probably should just get dressed and go before he wakes up or something. 

She throws off the blankets and stands up. 

Dallon rolls over heavily. "Bed foul," he says. "You’re letting all the heat out."

She blinks. "Sorry. I thought you were sleeping."

"I was until you made me cold," he says. "Come back. You need to replenish my warmth."

He props himself up on an elbow and shades his hand with his eye. The sun this morning is bright. She crosses her arms. 

"I should go home," she says. 

"You should come back to bed," he mumbles. "You don't look rumpled enough."

There's a mirror over the dresser. She glances at herself. Her hair is wild and her face is red. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"Sleep rumpled."

_Dallon_ sounds sleep rumpled. 

"You aren't rumpled," he explains. "So you it must mean you need more sleep."

She narrows her eyes. "Not very convincing."

"Ah, well," he says. "I tried to be witty. What if I just ask nicely? Please come back to bed and keep me warm?"

Spencer sighs. "I need to text my mother," she says. 

Dallon frowns. "And tell her?"

"I'm just going to tell her I'm at a friend's house," she says. "Why?" 

Dallon shrugs. "Not sure. Seems like something I should have said."

She stares at him. "You're weird."

"I know," he says. 

"Okay," she says. "I'm just going to go ..."

His eyes are already closed. 

She pads barefoot into the living room. It's seven o'clock. She glances out the window. The cat isn't there. 

She texts her mother and says that she's staying at a friend's. She waits a few minutes, and as she knew would happen, her phone buzzes with a reply.

_ok i was worried tho_

Spencer winces. She replies with an apology. 

Sometimes she knows she doesn't deserve her mother's trust.

She goes back into the bedroom. Dallon is sleeping with his arms at his sides. Spencer sticks her phone back in her pocket. She lifts up the covers and crawls back into bed. She startles when Dallon reaches over and puts his hand on her waist under her shirt, but she doesn’t pull away or tell him to stop. It feels good.

*****

It is raining and Spencer forgot her umbrella, so they retreat into the gazebo. Empty candy wrappers litter the ground, and there's gum stuck under the seat. Spencer's hair got wet when the rain started falling. Now it is drying into a frizzy mess. She pats at it ineffectually.

"Stupid rain," Brendon says, trying to wring out the legs of his pants. He's soaked up to the knee.

"What happened?" Spencer asks. It's raining, but it's not raining that hard.

"A bus drove past and got me," he says. "Stupid kids from my English class were laughing their asses off."

Spencer frowns. The thought of someone laughing at Brendon -- well, it's just wrong, and she wants to stop it.

"I hate high school kids," she says dramatically. "They're literally the lowest form of life."

"Harsh words," Brendon says. "I think I'm better than a slug, probably. Definitely than a worm. Did I tell you we had to dissect one in biology? I was going to object on moral grounds but, man, my dad would have been pissed if he got another call from the school."

"I didn't mean you," Spencer says. That should be obvious. "And no. Ew. You didn't tell me that."

"It was kind of awesome," Brendon admits. "In a gross way."

"We never got to dissect anything," Spencer says. "Budget cuts or something. We just watched a video of someone dissecting a frog." 

"Lame," Brendon says.

Outside, it rains harder. The wind is blowing the last of the golden leaves down. The grass is slippery wet. Spencer thinks about calling her mother for a ride home, but she's still not exactly in her mother's good graces. She didn't get grounded for staying out all night, but she knows she's got to toe the line for a little while. And if her mom knew what she'd been doing ...

She hasn’t told anyone she slept with Dallon. Who would she have told? It’s not like everything is suddenly different or something, but she’d really liked it. He’d made her feel good, better than she’s ever been able to make herself feel with just her fingers, and she wants to do it again. She smiles to herself at the memory, and she feels warm despite the rain. 

"What are you so happy about?" Brendon asks. He's not in a good mood. Spencer can tell by the way he's talking so much. He always talks and talks and talks when he's upset. Sometimes she wants to tell him to just shut up -- but she never actually would.

She shrugs. "Don't know," she lies. "What are you so freaked out about? You're talking a mile a minute, dude."

Brendon frowns, unhappy. His glasses slide a little down his wet nose. "Kelly-Ann didn't want to go to Homecoming with me," he says. "I asked her today at lunch."

"Ew," Spencer says, scowling. "What a jerk. Why didn't she want to go with you? You're a totally decent guy."

Brendon rolls his eyes. "Gee, thanks, Spence. You always know what to say."

She huffs. "Whatever, you know what I mean. You're not a jerk or anything, and you like good music. You're super polite and you're not bad looking." 

"Nobody at my school thinks that," Brendon says. He's staring down at the wet wood floor. Water is dripping from the eaves. "Kelly-Ann is dating this kid Mark who's on the soccer team. I didn't even know that, probably because nobody talks to me. He's tall and smart and popular and awesome. No wonder she said no to me."

"She's just dumb," Spencer says finally. 

Brendon smiles sadly. "I don't think so," he says, and nothing else.

He looks so miserable in his rain-soaked jacket with his hair hanging in his face that she kind of wants to give him a hug. But that would be weird, so she doesn't.

Instead, she says, "Do you think Ryan would come pick us up if we called him?" She gets out her phone. Ryan has a class until four, but it's over now. He's not entirely heartless so he might come.

Brendon shrugs and grabs his bag.

"It's okay, actually," he says. "I'm just going to walk. I'm already soaked." 

He starts to walk off.

Spencer stands up, frowning. "Why are you being so weird? Let's call Ryan. It's pouring."

Brendon shakes his head. "No, Spence," he says. "I just want to walk. Really. I'll see you at practice on Friday."

He turns and literally starts running through the rain, splashing as he goes. Spencer stares at him, confused, until he turns the corner.  
*****

"Geeze," Spencer says. "You can cook, too?"

Dallon smiles. "I'm no Gordon Ramsey, but I've been known to whip up a mean fettuccine Alfredo in my time." He hands her a plate.

"It looks really good," Spencer says. She balances it precariously on her knees. She is wearing a black dress, and she does not want to get it dirty. It seems kind of stupid, in retrospect, to have dressed up to come hang out with Dallon, but she is hoping that the last time wasn't a fluke. She wants to look nice. 

"It's a secret Weekes family recipe," Dallon says. "From the Florentine Weekes.”

He sits down with his own plate of food and his ubiquitous can of Dr. Pepper. 

Spencer takes a careful bite. She's pretty hungry; she had to finish her math homework during lunch and she'd only had time to scarf half her sandwich after working through her problem set. "It tastes really good," she says. 

Dallon half bows. "Maybe I missed my calling," he says. "Maybe I should give up the music thing and go to culinary school. I could be the greatest chef the world has ever known."

"You could be," Spencer says. "But you're a pretty good musician, too." She looks down, and smiles. "I think the world would be missing out if you gave up on the Brobecks."

His fork rings against his plate. "Thanks," he says quietly. "That means a lot, Spence. I know you know your shit when it comes to music."

"I know enough to know that you're good," she says. "The new song you played today was awesome. Do you think you’re going to put out another record?” 

He shrugs. "Maybe," he says, and then is silent.

Spencer takes another bite of her food. It's getting late and she knows that soon she will either go home, or she will stay. She isn't sure how it's going to happen yet. 

"Well," Spencer says. " _When_ you put out your next album, I better get a thank you in the liner notes."

She wonders if that's too presumptuous to say. Her first impulse is not to ask for things, not to expect them -- still. Every time she is bold enough to say something, she doubts herself.

Dallon laughs. "Sure thing," he says. "What am I thanking you for again?"

"Funny," Spencer says. "Really funny. Camaraderie and general awesomeness, I suppose."

"Of course," Dallon says. "Those two are a given."

When they are done eating, they stand at the sink and wash the dishes. Well, Dallon washes. Spencer dries. Sometimes, when she reaches over to get the next plate or fork, their fingers brush. Spencer wants to look up and meet Dallon's eyes and see what emotion is written there in those moments; but she doesn't. She just grabs the wet dishcloth and continues her work.

He is quiet -- unusually so, for him. She's gotten to know him well enough to know that he has things to say almost always. He has an active, restless, questioning mind. She knows he's interested in all kinds of weird things, reads Wikipedia articles on quantum physics in his spare time. 

When he's quiet, she thinks, it's because he is thinking too much.

But he doesn't ask her to go, like she thinks he will.

Instead, after dinner he says he has ice pops if she wants one. Hers is cherry, and his is grape.

"The worst flavor," Spencer says, gagging. "Gross."

"Wrong!" Dallon says. "Grape is superior in every way."

"That just goes against the rules of nature," she says, mock-disgusted.

When she's done and the sticky popsicle sticks are sitting on a napkin on the coffee table, jokes already read, he glances at her and says, "Your lips are so red right now."

She brings her fingers up to touch her mouth.

"Oh," she says. "Yeah, the popsicle."

"I want to kiss you," Dallon says.

She closes her eyes and she can feel every thread in the fabric of her dress and she can feel her eyelashes brush her cheek and she can feel the tremor of her heart. "I want to, too," she says.

Dallon closes his eyes. "I'm leaving soon. You know that, don't you?"

That tremor in her chest is distorted, contracting: terrible and thrilling at once. "I know you are," she says. He's never said it in so many words, but ... "How long can you house-sit before you're just freeloading?"

He chuckles. "I've done my fair share of that," he says quietly. "But ..."

"I know," she says. 

"Do you still want me to kiss you?" he asks. 

"Yeah," she says.

*****

"No, no," Ryan says. "Not like that."

He steps towards Brendon's mic stand, and the feedback squeals.

Spencer grimaces. Her back is starting to hurt from sitting so long. They've been practicing for two hours, and they've only gotten through four songs.

"You need to articulate a feeling of disenfranchised ennui," Ryan says, jabbing at the lyrics he earlier scribbled on notebook paper. "You can't sound angry; you're defeated."

"Oh," Brendon says, squinting. He's wearing his glasses today. They're dorky, but Spencer kind of likes them. "Right. Of course."

Ryan scowls. "I don't see what the point of continuing this is," he says. "You don't want to put in the effort to actualize our artistic ideals."

"You totally got that line from some hot upperclassman in the poetry club at school, didn't you?" Spencer asks. She can always tell when Ryan's being a phony. She's had a lot of experience.

"No," Ryan says, but his neck and chest start to flush, a sure sign he's lying.

"Yes," Spencer says. "Let me guess, her name is Hortencia and she's got long hair like an ebony rainbow and her parents are Arctic explorers who got lost trying to reach the North Pole."

Brendon laughs, eyes scrunched up. 

Ryan just sniffs, annoyed. "No," he says. "Her name is not Hortencia. It's Elizabeth. She's very talented. She's had things _published_."

"Oh, _published_ ," Brendon says. "Why didn't you say so? Well I definitely think you should bring her next time so she can tell me how to evoke the mysterious aura of your discontent, or whatever."

Ryan scowls. "Oh, fuck you both," he says. "I'm not ashamed of the fact that I'm actually trying to communicate truths in my lyrics." 

"Geeze," Brendon says. "I was just messing around. It's just funny thinking about you pining after this senior."

"I'm not pining after her," Ryan says. "I'm going to get coffee with her next week, actually. Besides --" He raises an eyebrow in a particular way. "I think going after older lovers is a trend in this band."

Brendon scrunches his nose. "Dude, what is that supposed to mean? Because, like, fine, I know Ms. Velazquez is old but she's a stripper, Ryan. I mean, she has to be hot if she's a stripper, right? It's not my fault Spencer's neighbors are hot older strippers who want me to drink their lemonade."

Ryan shakes his head. "I wasn't talking about you ..." He glances at Spencer. "You didn't tell him?"

Spencer has been assiduously studying the head of her snare. It's getting worn out, and she hopes she can get a new one sometime soon. She needs to get a part-time job or something, seriously.

"What's he talking about, Spence?" Brendon asks. "Have you been secretly crushing on Ms. Velazquez too? She is really scarily hot, even for a stripper."

"No," Spencer says. "No." She knows her face is red. "Nothing. It's nothing, Brendon. Ryan's just being an ass."

Ryan's phone rings then. He steps outside to answer it, like it's some important secret conversation instead of a call from one of his stupid college friends. Spencer paradiddles, thinking through the fill on the last song Ryan wrote. Brendon is being very quiet; she looks up. He's watching her.

"What did he mean?" Brendon asks.

Spencer shrugs. "Nothing, really," Spencer says.

"Oh," Brendon says. The corners of his mouth are turned down. "Because you know I would never tell any of your secrets or rat you out or anything, Spence. I mean, I know my parents are kind of nuts, but I'm not like nuts by association ... not yet, anyway."

She feels so bad. She knows that. She's always known that, but she hadn't told him, and she doesn't know how she can tell him now.

She shakes her head. Her hair, tied up in a long ponytail, swings. "It really was nothing," she says. "Just this guy I met at the bar a while ago. He thought I was older and he was flirting with me and stuff, but it's not like ... you know. Nothing really happened, except Ryan found something new to make fun of me about."

"Oh," Brendon says.

"Yeah," Spencer says. She smiles.

Brendon smiles back. "I wish I could come out with you guys," he says. 

Brendon's never been able to come to the bar with them -- his parents won't let him sleep over Spencer's house because she's a girl (which is the stupidest thing ever) and they don't trust Ryan's dad, so he can't sleep over there either.

"That would be really cool," Spencer says. 

Brendon opens his mouth to say something, but then Ryan comes in and says he needs to go and practice is over.

*****  
Spencer is sitting at her desk doing English homework, listening to Le Tigre, when her phone rings. It's late. She's not sure who would be calling her at nine o'clock on a Tuesday. 

She looks at her phone. It's Dallon.

She hasn't spoken to him since they --

Well, she hasn't spoken to him yet this week. 

She bites her lip. This essay is due tomorrow, and she's got another two pages to write. 

She lets Dallon's call go to voicemail. 

*****

Brendon's not waiting for her at the park the next day, so she calls him to see where he is.

He picks up after three rings. "Hello?"

"Hey," Spencer says. "Did you get detention again or something?"

Spencer hopes not, for his sake. Brendon's parents get super pissed when he gets detention, and it's always for the dumbest stuff, like rocking in his chair or drawing on his math book.

"Oh," Brendon says. "Hey, Spencer."

He sounds weird. Spencer can hear conversation in the background -- so no detention, then.

"You didn't text me and tell me you were going to be busy," Spencer says. "What are you doing?"

"I'm just hanging out at the Shack with some friends," he says. 

Spencer narrows her eyes. The Shack is a burger place downtown where a lot kids like to go after school. It's got a faux-retro vibe that Ryan takes issue with and the owner keeps the radio tuned to the local Top 40 station. Spencer's only been there a few times; she thinks it's hellish, and the food frankly isn’t that good. She doesn't know what Brendon's doing there.

"Oh," she says. 

"You should come hang out too," Brendon says, and she thinks she can hear just the slightest strain of desperation in his voice. 

Spencer doesn't really want to go, but she will. 

It's not a long walk from the park, but it's getting dark early now. She walks quickly from one pool of lamplight to another. She can see the cars parked in front of the Shack; there's a crowd, as usual. She lingers on the doorstep and then steps inside.

Brendon's sitting in a booth at the back with a bunch of similarly uniformed teenagers that Spencer assumes are his classmates. She doesn't know any of them because he normally professes to hate every single person at his school. He’s never introduced her to any of them as friends. She waves, and his face lights up. He scoots in, squishing the girl sitting next to him. She's petite and has blonde hair done up in a high ponytail. Her uniform is crisp. Brendon’s schoolmates are, on the whole, a very clean-cut bunch.

Spencer sits down.

"This is Spencer," Brendon says. "She's in my band."

He sounds proud, but gets almost no reaction. 

Spencer feels a little conspicuous in her black jeans and thrift store blouse. Her hair is long and unruly, and her purple nail polish is chipping. 

The conversation her arrival interrupted resumes. One of the girls holds up her hand, displaying a heart-shaped locket set with pink stones. 

"He gave it to me at lunch today," the girl says. "We were out in the field behind the chapel. It was so romantic."

"You're so lucky," one of the other girls says. "He's definitely going to give you a promise ring for your birthday."

The lucky girl smiles. "Oh my gosh, I know," she says. "He asked me if he should go talk to my dad, and I told him that he definitely has to if he wants us to be pre-engaged." She laughs. 

Spencer elbows Brendon. He is staring at the strawberry milkshake in front of him. He doesn't look up.

She can't help herself.

"The mere fact that you're laughing about marriage means you're not ready," she says, just a little too loudly.

They all look at her. The other boy at the table, who is squashed into the corner and hasn't yet said a word, nods solemnly. "You know," he says. "That's so true."

The others murmur in assent.

Beside her, Brendon bursts out laughing, deep guffaws that he can't seem to stop. His eyes are closed, and his face is turning red.

His schoolmates stare at him in confusion.

Spencer smiles brightly. "You sound really happy, though," she says in a bright, fake voice.

"Yeah," Brendon says, slightly more composed. "You totally do. But, um, I think Spencer and I have to get going. Thanks for inviting me."

He throws a few dollars on the table. Spencer stands and waves. Brendon follows.

As soon as they're outside, they turn to each other and burst into laughter again.

"Tell me her name isn't Egg," Spencer says. “Or Ann.” 

Brendon shakes his head, grinning. "That would have been too good," he says. "It's Nicole, unfortunately."

"She sure seems happy to be pre-pre-engaged," Spencer says. 

"I guess so," Brendon says, shoving his hands in his pockets.

They're walking back towards the park, heading that way through unspoken consensus. It's their place. There's no place else they'd go.

"So what were you doing with them, anyway?" Spencer asks. She pushes her hair out of her eyes.

Brendon shrugs. "They're in chorus with me and they've been asking me to come for a while. I figured it was rude to say no every single time."

"Oh," Spencer says. "They seemed okay."

Brendon nods. "Yeah," he says. "They're okay."

"You should have texted me, though," she chides. 

Brendon glances sidelong at her, but he doesn't say anything.

They wait at the corner to cross Main Street. The light takes forever to change. The traffic is an impatient blur. Someone with music blaring drives past; the bass thuds, throbs. A woman walks down the street with her dog. 

Brendon pauses at the corner of Forsythe Street. "I probably should head home," he says. "My mom is pissed because I got a D on that biology quiz."

Spencer frowns. "The Krebs Cycle one? But you studied so much."

"Yeah, well," Brendon says. "I guess ATP synthesis just isn't my thing."

"Yeah," Spencer says.

Brendon turns to go and Spencer feels a chill run down her spine. She doesn't want Brendon to blow her off to hang out with Ann-Bland-Nicole. She doesn't want Brendon to be awkward and silent around her. She doesn't know what she did -- or if she even did anything, because saying it that way makes it sound like there's someone to blame -- but she knows what she might be able to do to fix it. Maybe she’s known for a while.

"Hey," she calls.

Brendon turns and looks back from halfway down the block.

"Do you want to come to Homecoming with me?" She's glad he’s far enough away that he can't see the way her cheeks heat up -- even now, even still, this is so fucking hard. 

He grins, and gives her a thumbs-up. 

Spencer laughs and buries her nose in her scarf.

*****

Spencer stares at her laptop in dismay. She’s been working on this essay for hours and she’s getting nowhere. The instructions allow her only five hundred words, but she barely has a hundred. It’s a sunny afternoon; they’re in the middle of one last spell of unseasonable warm weather. Maybe she’ll see if Ryan’s around. Rolling over, she reaches for her cellphone. 

"Where are you?" Spencer can hear traffic. He’s not at home.

"Sitting on the curb outside of the Wawa on Division," Ryan says. "Mikey’s brother is taking the train in from the city, and I said I’d pick him up. We're killing time, and I wanted a milkshake." 

Mikey again. Spencer gets that college is all about meeting new people and stuff, but she misses Ryan. Other than band practice, she feels like she barely sees him.

"I thought college kids had better things to do than sit outside of Wawa," Spencer says. "I was going to come over and bother you if you were home. I'm writing the stupidest college essay in the world." 

"For which school?" Ryan asks. 

"Amherst," Spencer says. "They want me to reflect on reasoning and instinct in the natural sciences." 

Ryan whistles. "Pretty fancy, Spence." 

"Not really," she says, defensively. Ryan is so smart, definitely smarter than she is, and if his dad had paid for the application fees he could have applied to schools other than Rutgers too. "I'm probably not even going to get in." 

“There are worse things than being stuck in New Brunswick with me," he says. "I wouldn’t have to find a new drummer." 

"You wouldn't dare," she says, fiercely. She knows Ryan's just winding her up, but still. It’s their band, not just his.

"The band is going places," Ryan says. "I might have a lead on a new bassist, and Brendon’s voice is getting a lot better. Mikey says his friend Sarah is booking a showcase at Starland in a couple of months, and he can probably get us in." 

"I'll believe it when it happens," she says. Mikey and Frankie and all of Ryan's other friends have been promising to get them gigs for a while now, but none have materialized.

"Speaking of Brendon," Ryan says, "I hear you've got a date to Homecoming." 

Spencer flushes, turning red so quickly she can feel her cheeks heat. "Yeah, so," she says, fumbling over her words, "he was bummed because this girl said no to him and I figure I should go to one dance in my high school career and whatever, there are totally worse guys in the world." 

Ryan laughs. "Dude, Spence ... you two have liked each other since the day you met. It's been kind of sad, watching you both remain totally oblivious." 

"I wasn't oblivious," Spencer says defensively. She always knew she liked Brendon; she just didn't think he liked her back. 

"You were," Ryan says. "But whatever, you've wised up now. I think you two dorks are a pretty good match.” 

"Gee, thanks," she says. 

"You'd better not break his heart and break up my band though," he says warningly. 

"I thought I was breaking up your band by going away to school," she counters. 

"I bet we'll have a record deal before you have a college acceptance," he says "Those singles I posted on PureVolume are _very_ popular." 

"Dream on," she says, laughing. 

Someone says something in the background, and there's a whistle. 

"The train's here," Ryan says. "Gotta go." 

"Fine," she says. "Come over tomorrow if you're not too busy. My dad's not working and my mom's making her lasagna." 

"For your mom's lasagna, I'll be there," Ryan says, and then he hangs up. 

Spencer tosses her phone to the foot of her bed. Ryan has always dreamed big; she's always been the pragmatic one. But lately she's let herself dream bigger too. She doesn't want to stay in New Jersey her whole life, and if that means leaving everyone she knows and going away to college, that's what she'll do. There is a whole world of people she wants to meet and places she wants to go, and she’s not scared any more. But if Ryan's scheming end up getting them signed -- well, she thinks, that would probably work too.

*****

She goes over to Dallon’s apartment without calling. A car she does not recognize is parked in the driveway, so she parks on the street. The cat is sitting on the garbage can. She holds her hand out, but the cat just stares, green-eyed and diffident, before jumping to the ground and darting under the cover of some rank weeds. 

She is glad she knocks, because a strange man is sitting on the couch. Dallon takes her coat when she comes inside. 

“Spencer, this is my friend Darren. You’ve already met his apartment.” 

“Yeah,” she says. “Uh. Nice to meet you.” 

“You too,” Darren says. He looks exhausted when he smiles. “I’d get up, but I’m so tired I’ve lost all control over my body.” 

“That’s … unfortunate,” Spencer says. “I guess your tour wasn’t full of rest and relaxation?” 

Darren snorts. “They never are.” 

Dallon puts a hand on Spencer’s shoulder. “We’ll let you sleep, then,” he says, and he hands Spencer back her coat. 

They go outside. Dallon sits on the rusted hood of his car. Spencer leans against the fence, her hands folded behind her back. 

“I missed you,” Dallon says. 

Spencer believes him, without pausing for a second to wonder if he is being funny or mocking or if there is some ulterior motive. 

“Sorry,” she says. “I knew you were leaving, but I got kind of bummed anyway.” 

“You don’t have to be sorry,” Dallon says. “It’s pretty flattering.” 

“Did you tell your friend?” Spencer asks. The sky is slate gray and she wonders if today it will be the day it snows for the first time this year.

“Tell him what?” Dallon is not wearing a jacket. It’s cold, and he pulls his arms out of his sleeves and wraps them around himself. The sleeves flop, useless. 

“About … us,” Spencer says lamely. 

Dallon frowns. “That we slept together? No, I didn’t tell him that.”

Spencer tucks her hands inside the sleeves of her sweater. “Because you’re embarrassed? I know guys like to brag about the girls they sleep with, but I guess I’m not that pretty and I’m kind of chunky and I’m …” Her words are low and frustrated and mean, and she doesn’t even know why, except that she’s trying to do anything to quell this wild, startling terror that she feels when she thinks about him leaving. 

Dallon makes a frustrated noise. “Just stop,” he says. “You know I think you’re beautiful. Not all guys act like they’re in some dumb sitcom on FX. You’re smarter than that.” 

“But you didn’t tell him,” she presses. 

“It’s not any of his business,” Dallon says. “It was something we did, together, because we wanted to. I didn’t want to have sex with you so I could brag about it to my friends, Spencer.” 

She closes her eyes. “I know,” she says. “Sorry. I …” 

“Stop with the sorry,” Dallon says. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” 

“I’m going to miss you,” she says, ire gone. “Like, a lot. Is that dumb? I knew you were going to leave.” 

“I’m going to miss you too,” Dallon says. 

“Good,” she says. 

“Come here,” he says. 

She climbs up and sits beside him. “I don’t feel bad,” she says. “Even though I know like, you’re supposed to wait to have sex until you’re with someone you love or whatever. It felt good. It was good.” 

“Good. It should feel good. I don’t know if there’s any reason to do it if it doesn’t,” Dallon says. “I’m going to miss you, too, you know.”

“Yeah?” She lets him put his arm around her, lets him draw her close to his side. His hands are ice cold. She shivers. 

“Yeah,” he says. “I’m stealing your body heat by the way. I hope you don’t mind.” 

“It’s fine,” she says, smiling. “I don’t want you to freeze. Here.” 

She unbuttons her jacket and places his hands around her waist. 

“Yeah, I’m really going to miss you,” Dallon says. His fingers press just into her sides, tickling. “You better watch out. The next stop on my Freeloading Across America tour is going to be the floor of your dorm room.” 

“You can come,” Spencer says. “But there’ll be a charge.” 

“Oh, I have ways of earning my keep,” he says, low, and he brings his hands up so his thumbs are grazing the place where her breasts swell from her ribcage. 

“I wish your friend wasn’t home,” she says, and she blushes at her daring. 

“Yeah,” Dallon says, and she thinks she can hear the desire in his voice. God, she never thought anyone would sound like that when talking to her. She never thought she’d hear that tone in anyone’s voice and shiver with pleasure, instead of blushing, childish and embarrassed. 

“I feel like I’ve known you longer than I’ve known you,” she says. “Is that weird?” 

“No,” Dallon says. “I feel that way too.” 

She closes her eyes and she focuses on the way it feels to have his hands on her waist, the way he smells, the warm cushion of his body heat. It makes her feel so good. His thumb keeps grazing her nipple through the fabric of her bra, and she shivers every time. She feels tingly and turned on. 

She hadn’t known it would be like this. 

“When are you leaving?” she asks. She is scared to know but she has to know. 

“Tomorrow,” he says. “Heading back to Utah first thing.” 

“Oh,” she says, and she hopes she keeps the worst of her heartbreak out of her voice. 

“Yeah,” he says. “But I’ll write. I’ll email. I’ll send you postcards from every place I go.” 

“You better,” she says. 

He holds her then, and she kisses him. 

*****

Brendon gets her two corsages. One has big pompom chrysanthemums dyed purple and orange and sprayed with glitter. The other is a peach rose tucked in a bed of baby's breath. 

"I went and picked one out because, I know you're supposed to get your date a corsage," Brendon says. He's wearing a black suit that's just slightly too big; a hand-me-down from a more robust older brother. "But then my mom heard what I got and she said I had to get another one that wouldn't clash with your dress."

Spencer can pretty easily guess which one Brendon picked out, and which one his mom did. The purple and orange does kind of clash with her dress, but it's awesome anyway.

"I'll wear one on each wrist," she says, and she puts them on that way for a second and makes a sort of faux-karate pose. 

Brendon laughs, nervously. His hair is slicked back from his face neatly. 

"They're both really pretty," Spencer says, taking the rose corsage off. "I'm going to leave this one here, though, so it doesn't get smashed and wilted and shit."

"Okay," Brendon says, too quickly. He’s jittery and nervous.

"Calm down, dude," Spencer says. "It's going to be fine."

"I know," he says. "I know. I'm just excited. I can't wait to dance, Spence."

Spencer groans. 

They can't delay much longer. They go downstairs, and let Spencer's mom arrange them in front of the fireplace for pictures. Brendon puts his hand around Spencer's waist, barely touching. She can feel him trembling. 

They're just taking Spencer's mom's car to the school. Some of the kids from school are renting limos and stuff, but Spencer knows that she already spent more than she should have on her dress and her shoes and whatever. She would feel bad, but she loves the silky dark teal fabric and the full circle skirt. Brendon's eyes went all wide when she walked downstairs, and he’d looked at her like she was the prettiest girl he’d ever seen. She’d never felt prettier than she had when he looked at her like that.

Spencer parks in the back of the parking lot. She knows how the kids at her school drive. She turns the car off. Brendon undoes his seat belt. Spencer can see people she goes to class with arriving, walking arm and arm towards the school. She realizes, suddenly, that if she and Brendon go to this dance together, people will think they’re dating.

She knows how people react to Brendon. She knows he looks a little young for his age and that he's goofy and that his glasses aren't exactly the epitome of chic. A few months ago, she probably wouldn't have asked him to Homecoming. A few months ago, she probably wouldn't have wanted people making assumptions about the two of them. She doesn’t know what’s going to happen with Brendon – if he’s going to ask her out for real, if he’d say yes if _she_ worked up the nerve to do it – but she knows that it doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks, just what they do. A few months ago, Spencer was only a few months younger than she is now, but she feels like she's grown up a lot since then. 

"Let's go," she says, opening the car door and maneuvering her skirt out so she doesn't trip or tear it. 

Brendon gets out. His nose is red. Spencer's sure hers is, too. She smiles at him, and she takes his hand. His palm's a little sweaty, but she doesn't care. 

The school is decorated in blue and silver, with twinkling lights strung up everywhere. It's overkill, Spencer thinks, but it's nice enough.

Greta is standing just inside, wearing a gauzy gold dress that reaches the floor. She grins and waves when she sees Spencer, and Spencer grins and waves back.

"Your dress is really pretty," she says. 

"Yours too," Greta says, and yeah it's dumb and perfunctory but Spencer does think Greta's dress is pretty. 

"This is my friend Brendon," Spencer says, and Brendon awkwardly half-waves. "I'm sure you two would get along great. Brendon plays, like, seriously every instrument ever."

"Oh, really?" Greta says, her eyes lighting up. "I'm in the concert band here."

Spencer smiles. Brendon enthuses about the latest piece he's learning at school. Spencer's phone buzzes. She's got a text from Ryan.

_don't let Brendon have too much punch or he'll embarrass himself_

Typically curt and typically Ryan, sure, but Spencer smiles. Deep down she thinks that's just Ryan's way of telling them to have a good time.

Greta sees some other friends she wants to greet so they get a table. Brendon is beaming. "It looks like a party store threw up on your school," he says.

"I think maybe it did," Spencer says. "Or someone knocked over a tractor trailer full of Mylar balloons and bunting." 

Brendon is fidgeting in his seat. It's weird -- normally they never run out of stuff to talk about, but it doesn't seem like the time to complain about what a slave driver Ryan was being in practice last week or bitch about science homework. Spencer takes her chapstick out of her purse just for something to do.

"I'm really, really glad you asked me," Brendon says. He's staring at the tablecloth. "Um, I mean. I kind of think you're awesome. I don't know if you know that. I have for a long time."

Spencer is overwhelmed by a smile. "I kind of think you're awesome too," she says.

Brendon’s smile matches hers. 

Greta comes with some of her friends and sits at their table. There are introductions all around. The gym is filling up now. The lights dim and there's a startled, pleased whoop from the crowd. Brendon is talking to Greta and her friend Bob about a karaoke Homecoming. His eyes are wide and his hands are waving and he looks pretty doofy and Spencer's heart sort of throbs in a way she has felt once before. 

It's weird how she thought maybe she'd never love anyone -- that it was something so rare and special she would never find it. It's weird she thought that when she is surrounded by so many good people that she cares about so deeply. People who care about her, too.

The music starts, some pop song that Spencer's heard on the radio once or twice before. The table empties. Brendon is bouncing in his seat. He knows how she feels about dancing. 

Spencer does not dance.

"Come onnn, Spence," he says. "It'll be fun. We can do the robot."

She rolls her eyes. "No thanks. Go make an idiot out of yourself without me."

Maybe her tone is a little harsh, or maybe Brendon is just way too good at reading her. His eyes go big and he pouts.

"Ugh, fine," Spencer says. "Go and I'll meet you in a second."

Brendon stands up, triumphant, and pumps his fist. "You better come. I'm giving you one song."

"I will," she says.

He disappears through the sea of tulle skirts.

Spencer's purse buzzes, startling her. She's got another text.

It's from Dallon.

_Have fun tonight!!! Break a leg!!_

A second later, she has another text.

_Not literally. Don't literally break your leg. Do literally have fun._

She closes her eyes, and she smiles. 

_Thanks_ , she sends. _Miss you!_

The reply comes instantly. 

_Miss you too!_

Spencer swallows. She misses him so much, and she has no idea when she’ll see him again. Six more months of high school, and then everything is going to change – she’s not sure yet how. But she can’t worry about that now. It’s enough to feel, and to know he feels too. She puts her phone back in her bag and she goes to find Brendon.


End file.
